The Tragic Tales of Camelot
by lawla
Summary: A collection of one-shots focused upon the lives of several of the characters from Merlin. Chapter 31: Camelot is a castle of secrets and slowly, Gwen is drowning.
1. Chapter 1: The Death of a Queen

**AN: A random idea for a one shot that kept bugging me all day until I wrote it. Anyway, it's written about the death of Igraine, Uther's wife and mother to Arthur. I hope that this does the tradgedy justice. By the way, if I write one more thing before I update my other fics, I give you permission to beat me :L.**

**As always, reviews are more than welcome. Review mine and I'll review yours if you ask or maybe if you don't :L:)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin. I do, however, own the laptop where this fic is saved, as well as a pyscho cat called Scabby. :L**

* * *

It was a lazy summer. The sun was low in the sky, ready to disappear behind the wide breath of the trees. A gentle breeze blew from the east, the only relief on a warm, humid night. Deep within the walls of Camelot castle, a woman sighed, her blue eyes morose. Beautiful was she, but dark shadows hung underneath her eyes and her skin seemed taut and pallid.

Today was just another day in just another summer.

The room around her seemed to shrink as she glided towards the window, the very effigy of grace. Odd really; normally, she was so clumsy. The city always looked so different at night, so dark, lit only by the faint glow of candles, the flickering light escaping through open windows, yet so alive. Soon the noise would stop and all the world would be peaceful. She'd never liked the quiet despite her love of solitude. Then again, he had always called her contrary.

And there he was, a shadowy figure behind her, arms wrapped round her figure. She embraced the touch, a soft smile playing upon her lips. He, whom she loved more than any. He, the king of Camelot who commanded the city. He, her husband whom she would travel to the very ends of the earth for.

"Dearest Igraine."

He kissed her neck before murmuring sweet-nothings into her ear. Laughing, she turned round to face him, planting a quick kiss on his lips. It didn't last long enough for him, and he clutched to her tightly, unwilling to let go. She slapped his hands playfully, before pulling away. Her eyes were shining though, their deep blue as bottomless as Uther's love was for her. He watched her shuffle off, the grace replaced by something less foreign, something more appealing. She turned her head back over her shoulder and smiled, her cherry lips inviting. He grinned back watching the way the candle light was reflected in her eyes. His grin turned to concern as she stumbled over a rug, hastily clutching at the dark wood of the table to stop herself from falling. Then she laughed again, a peal of bells lighting up the night and Uther fell in love with her all over again. His queen. His love. She really was perfect.

Her blue gown trailed across the floor, the soft silk rustling. Uther remembered buying her that gown when they first started courting. It was a trivial gift compared to what he could have bought, but she'd loved it. It was a wonder that it still fit, what with her ballooning stomach. Uther grinned again as he imagined their child; it would be smart like him, brave and honourable, with the extraordinary beauty and compassion of its mother. There would not be a better child in the kingdom, nor happier parents.

His daydream was interrupted when his wife sighed, a show of annoyance that did nothing to extinguish the sparkle in her eyes. He nodded at her curtly, his eyes drifting towards her stomach. The hour was late and she needed her rest. She scowled at him, battling against the laughter that threatened to engulf her at the sight of his confused expression.

"I am fine," Igraine said softly, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. "There have been many later nights than this."

"You were not with child on those nights," Uther replied, somewhat tersely. "Now be off with you and leave me to my work." His words were softened by his grin and the obvious adoration in his eyes. "And make sure that that maid of yours has kindled the fire. I don't want you getting cold."

"I will be fine, Uther."

He nodded, just as the clock struck midnight, the large bell in the courtyard chiming loudly against the silent backdrop. He jumped with each ring, his wife chortling before leaving the room, a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Little did they know that she would be anything but.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only hope, desperately waiting for news of his queen. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by and still he must wait. _

* * *

It was one o'clock when she burst into his study. He would have fired her on the spot had it not been for the way she was shaking, large tears streaming from her puffy eyes.

"Milord," she stammered, her accent thick. "It's your wife."

Uther's heart seemed to stop as he digested the words.

"My wife?" he repeated, his mouth agape.

"Yes, milord. She's very ill. I sent for Nimueh but –" she sobbed again, seemingly fighting to regain control. Uther rose from his chair, shaking her slender frame with vehemence.

"What? What is wrong?"

"They think –" She sniffed loudly before continuing. "They think that –" Another sob and another shake. "They don't know if she'll last the night." The final words escaped her just as a shout of anguish escaped Uther.

He wasn't aware that he was running, only that within minutes, he was outside his wife's door hammering upon it with all the force of a bear.

It was opened cautiously and the slender frame of Nimueh slipped out, her blue eyes moist. From within the chamber, Uther could hear a great deal of sobbing and the occasional scream. He made to pass the servant but a surprisingly strong hand stopped him.

"You must not enter."

"Move, wench, or I shall fire you on the spot."

"You must not enter," she repeated in the same, calm, cold tone.

"Please," he pleaded, wide eyed. "I must see my wife!"

"You cannot help her," Nimueh replied, "and neither can I if you do not let me do my work." Uther nodded slowly, noticing the beads of sweat upon her brow.

"What is wrong with her?"

"It appears that she is in labour prematurely," replied the woman, a slight frown upon her face.

"How long has she been like this?"

"An hour or so. Now, I must go!"

"What can I do?" Uther called after her, his bottom lip trembling.

"Wait here. I shall send one of the maids out in an hour." She paused and her expression softened. "Do not lose faith. Pray for her and feel appeased."

When the door closed, Uther knelt down to the ground and prayed to the heavens.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only hope, desperately waiting for news of his queen. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by and still he must wait. _

* * *

The time passed slowly, every minute increasingly the strain on Uther's heart. He awaited the hourly updates from the maid with baited breath, each time dying a little when he was told that there was no improvement. Two o'clock, three o'clock, four o'clock, five... The hours passed and the clock chimed but Uther could do no more than wait, a lonely figure in a lonely corridor. At six o'clock, Gaius came, though Nimueh turned him away after a whispered conversation. Gaius could not help, she said. Gaius would not help.

The physician turned towards the king, pity etched around his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said, his wizened eyes tired.

"You could not have known," Uther said stiffly, though his gaze never once left the door. "It is in Nimueh that we must place our hope."

She'll be fine," Gaius lied, knowing that his words were false. He made to sit but the king shook his head before burying it in his hands.

"Leave me," he said through muffled sobs.

"Your majesty, I –"

"I said, leave me!" There was a dangerous note to the king's voice, and Gaius scuttled away fearfully. Too often had he been on the receiving end of the king's anger recently.

Uther didn't look up for several minutes, only raising his head when the clock chimed eight. The door opened and he leapt to his feet, hopeful that this time, the news would be good. The maid shook her head sadly before closing the door again. Uther slumped against the wall, his legs falling out from underneath him as he let out a howl of anguish. Around him, Camelot began to stir.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only hope, desperately waiting for news of his queen. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by and still he must wait. _

* * *

It was nine o'clock when his advisors arrived, all sombre faces and insincere displays of grief. They'd never liked the queen, never trusted the power and sway she had held over her husband. They did not understand the true power of love, the bliss that came with being wedded to the one he wanted. They watched him closely, huddled together in a small group, whispering and lamenting. Uther felt a surge of rage rise up in him.

"She is not dead yet!" he rages, eyes red and bloodshot. "Though you will be if you do not leave me!" The advisors cowered beneath his stormy glare, hastily departing en masse. Uther grimaces, his mouth stretched in a hard, tight line.

This was never meant to happen, not to his love! They were meant to rule together, to raise their child together, to grow old _together_... No. He was being a defeatist by giving up now, even when only a shadow of hope still remained. She needed him to be strong.

He sunk down to his knees and prayed again.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only hope, desperately waiting for news of his queen. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by and still he must wait. _

* * *

Ten o'clock and the castle walls were bustling with life. Uther heard them all, the courtiers and the servants, each one going about their normal everyday lives, oblivious of the events deep within the castle's walls. He paced over to window and leant out, numb to the feeling of the breeze on his face. Those that saw him recoiled, his desperate appearance stirring up nothing other than repulsion in their hearts. They did not understand that with every passing minute, their queen took one step closer to death.

She loved the breeze. He remembered the first time he had met her, an arrogant prince learning how to fire a bow. He had believed it to be easy, not understanding the skill and agility involved. He had missed wildly of course, much to the amusement of a scrawny girl with long, flowing hair and the most entrancing eyes he had ever seen. She had smiled at him, asked him his name before telling him that his arm wasn't rigid enough. He had scowled at her, mortified to be given advice by a girl, no doubt one younger than him! His father had appeared then and she had scarpered, but Uther had never forgotten her face nor her advice. As fate would have it, they'd met several years later at a feast. She had blossomed since their first meeting into a great beauty, one of the finest in the kingdom, and had been recently widowed after her husband died in battle. Uther had asked for her hand there and then and within months, they were married.

He had never been so happy.

All that was set to change now though. Uther was no fool; he knew that whatever the outcome, he risked losing both his wife and his child. Life was not made of miracles. He decided then, in his desperation, to make a pact with God.

"Save my wife," he cried, "and I shall forever be in your debt! I swear to you, if you save them, I shall be the bravest, most noble king to have ever walked upon this earth! I beg of you; save them!"

Life was not made of miracles.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only hope, desperately waiting for news of his queen. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by and still he must wait. _

* * *

Eleven o'clock and the bells were chiming again. News had travelled and all members of the court were flustered, unsure of what the day might bring. They had not seen Uther all day save for a few, and even they knew little about his state of mind. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself, holding onto the last shreds of hope with a wild fervour unaware that even as they whispered poisoned truths, the threads were unravelling.

It was sometime past eleven when Nimueh emerged from the room, bloodied and defeated, cradling the small, fragile form lying still in her arms. She held it out towards Uther, who could only stare with unfathomable eyes at the bundle.

"Where is my Igraine?" He asked, panic washing over him.

"She has gone to the stars," Nimueh replied, faint traces of tears wet on her cheeks, "but she has left you her babe. She asks only that you raise him well, and that his name should be Arthur. Will you not hold him?"

He shook his head, waving the woman away and ordering her to take the child with her. He couldn't bear to glance upon either of them, not even his own son who his wife had laboured for. The son who had killed his own mother.

No. It could not be his son's fault! Something so pure, so beautiful could not be a murderer at birth. _Her_ son, the last remaining bit of her could not be despoiled at such a tender age! It was Nimueh's fault, it had to be! If she had only tried harder, _worked _harder, Igraine might still be alive! He might still have a wife and Arthur might still have mother, and there would be none of this darkness in his heart, only joy and rejoicing.

Arthur. The name fell from his lips like rain from the sky as he contemplated in silent horror the events of the day. She would never know him, the beautiful boy whose birth would always be tainted by the death of that he should have loved dearly, the one that Uther had loved dearly! There had been no goodbyes, not final declarations of love. She had been robbed from him just as she had been robbed from the hours had changed everything.

It hurt him to realise that he would never again feel the soft caress of her touch, the gentle touch of her lips upon his. It was worse than any pain that could have been inflicted by the blade, worse even than the thought of losing his throne. She was gone and she wasn't ever coming back.

He longed to go over to her body, to say goodbye and thank her for all the joy she had brought him, but he could not do it. He wanted her last memories of her to be her smiling, her eyes twinkling whilst she laughed, not a cold, emotionless corpse laid dead in her chamber. Igraine had gone and only her body was left.

At midday, her death was announced to the rest of Camelot by Uther's chief advisor, his gravelly voice harsh compared to the normal suaveness of the king. The clock clanged loudly twelve times, and a deathly silence descended upon the city. Uther still did not move.

She was gone, gone to a place where he could not follow, leaving him to bring up their son alone. Their son. A flash of anger engulfed him at the words and he struck out before dissolving into large, desperate sobs. God had failed him, had failed her!

Uther swore then, made an oath to always follow his head to protect his son, to never believe in miracles nor magic. They were wrong, he reasoned, and the wrong had to be exterminated for the greater good. It would start with Nimueh.

He rose to his feet, back aching from sitting on the floor. The time for mourning was over. The coldness in his limbs were spreading, substituting the warmness in his heart for a compassionless, icy clarity. He decided to go in search of Arthur, his son who might one day become a mighty king. With one last glance at the door, he leaves, wiping away all trace of his tears. She was his past and Arthur was his future. Behind him lay Igraine, queen of Camelot and keeper of his heart. Uther would remember her forever.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick. The minutes pass and there's still no sound. Uther can only cry, heartbroken, because no news of his queen is forthcoming. His love. His angel. The minutes tick by. He will be waiting forever._

* * *

**_AN: _Hope you liked it :). I'm not sure if I want to expand this into a series of just keep it as a one shot. Please let me know if you would like more, focused on both the lives of Arthur and Uther as well as a little more from Igraine. :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Nimueh's Sorrow

**AN: Aha, new chapter. Anyway, I'm feeling a little smug seeing as I beat the rush to do fics about Arthur's mother. Wahayy ;). Anyway, here's a one shot focusing on Nimueh, who is pretty much my new favourite character for some reason :L.**

**Anyway, this one is just a really short one-shot about the relationship between Uther and Nimueh and how it deteriorated. **

**Another angst driven one I'm afraid. Next time, I'll try for some fluff :) By the way, these aren't ordered one shots at all. They're just written when I get the inspiration and posted accordingly. Be warned that I may shuffle things around a bit :L.**

**Please read and review :D.**

* * *

Nimueh. Her name put fear into the heart of Uther. His name put anger into the heart of her.

Twenty-one long years she had waited for revenge. Twenty-one long years of heartache and misery, curled up in her cave staring pensively at the images in the water. Never in her wildest dreams had she foreseen this, this _wretched _existence, where the only pleasure she experienced was when she was taking revenge on her former friend.

They _had_ been friends, although Uther never hesitated to deny it. The king of Camelot friends with a sorcerer? Nay, was not so. How could Uther have been friends with the very thing that he despised? Nimueh knew better, and that's what made his betrayal all the worse.

He had not always despised her. For years, they had been inseparable, two sides of a coin. Yes, they had had others, but they were always there for each other when it mattered, and for the most part, they had been happy. Nimueh had grown to love the man like a brother, watching silently in the shadows as he had taken Igraine as his wife. It had broken her heart to foresee the childless future which they held, not that he knew it.

Everything had changed after that. Nimueh was cast aside, no longer of such importance to Uther. He had a new rock, someone else to lean on when pressures of his life became too much. They would go for weeks without seeing each other and even longer without speaking. Ignored and lonely Nimueh became, though she spoke of her heartache to no one for fear of the king finding out. Uther was happy, and Nimueh should have been to.

Soon, it became common knowledge that the queen was barren, unable to produce an heir. Uther had come running back to her then, the months of neglect forgotten. He had begged her to provide him with a son, an heir to whom Uther's kingdom would one day belong. Nimueh had refused at first, too wary of the consequences to even contemplate the idea.

Uther's wrath had been terrible. He'd threatened her, told her that she would have no place at his court if she disobeyed him. She had been frightened and confused, and in her foolishness, she had agreed. Now she was suffering the consequences.

Igraine should never have died. Of course, Nimueh knew that it would be a life for a life, but never had she entertained the possibility that it would be the queen of Camelot. A random peasant, she had thought, known by few and missed by less, not the strong, healthy queen who had had a great many years left in her. How Uther expected her to know the outcome baffled her; she was a sorceress, yes, but she was not God. No, Igraine's death had been a terrible tragedy, one that should never have happened but one that did anyway.

Uther's retribution had been terrible. He had come for her in the darkest night, eyes wild as he dragged her through the corridors by her hair. She had screamed and had cried and had begged him to reconsider but he had cast her from the court without a second thought. In his eyes, she was evil, no longer a friend but a murderer of that he had loved more than anything else.

"I will not kill you," he had said, "because I want you to suffer the way I have. The way I always will do."

Then, he'd spat at her feet before walking away, the final farewell of a friendship annihilated. Nimueh had risen to her feet and scarpered. That night, the killings had begun.

It had been her mother first, her poor, defenceless mother who had never done anything to anybody. Uther had met her, had eaten in her house, yet he had still ordered her killing. The body was still warm when Nimueh had arrived.

Next had been her sister. Nimueh had found her burning, the blonde of her hair melting in the heat. Her face had been blackened and charred, unrecognisable save for the deep blue of her eyes. The blue that Nimueh shared. The blue that now wept a thousand tears for what had come to pass.

Of course, the killings had not ended there, but her life had. Every death made her just that little bit more less human, a little more evil. Uther didn't understand of course, but by taking away her friends and her family, by persecuting her kind, he was making her stronger. He was removing what made her weak, her Achilles heel as it were, and providing her with the most powerful weapon her arsenal could possess.

For the first time in Nimueh's life, she had felt hatred towards Uther.

She felt the same hatred now as she stared at him, the frightened king of a cold, cruel land. Here he was, about to risk his life for his son, the son whom Nimueh had given him because he had asked! No, it was not Nimueh's fault that Igraine was dead but Uther's, not that he could see it. Now, he was never going to have the chance.

Maybe when he was dead, she would find the solace that she was seeking. She didn't need his forgiveness, and she certainly didn't want it. Uther had made her this way, stripped away her humanity until there was nothing but hatred and anger left. For Nimueh, he had committed the ultimate betrayal.

Granted, her revenge had been harsh, and many innocent people had been killed, but sacrifices had to be made and people had to die. She had tried to reason with Uther before and it had not worked, leaving her with no alternative but to butcher his kind. It had started with him, and it would end with him to.

Death would not wait for Uther Pendragon.


	3. Chapter 3: Swimming

**AN: Some fluff! Well, kind of. I'm not really sure what this is actually :L. Anyway, this was a random idea that came out of nowhere though I keep getting a feeling of de ja vu for some reason. :L**

**I hope this live up to expectations!**

**Please read and review. You'll be my new favourite person if you do :D**

* * *

It was a hot day in Camelot. The air was unusually heavy, the humidity pressing down upon the lives of Camelot's ordinary citizens as they went about their work. Soldiers, blacksmiths, bakers, knights. All searched for shade in the vain hope that they might find relief. None were successful.

Outside the city's borders, two men were sat lounging upon the riverbank. One was a gangly young fellow with bright eyes and a slightly confused expression, his dark hair damp against his forehead. The other was older with an air of nobility the other lacked, handsome with blond hair and deep blue eyes.

He clutched at his shirt with sweaty palms, trying in vain to pull it away from his body. It sprung back, stuck with a thin layer of sweat and he sighed.

"Why is it so hot?"

"I don't know, Arthur," the dark-haired boy replied. "Maybe because it's summer?" He grinned before continuing, "Don't forget, it was your idea to go hunting after all..."

Arthur scowled, before pushing himself to his feet.

"Yes, Merlin, I know that."

"Just reminding you."

"I don't need to be reminded."

"But you do."

"But I don't."

"But you do," Merlin said, chuckling at the way Arthur's eyebrows creased in frustration.

"Merlin," Arthur hissed through his teeth. "Be quiet."

"Yes, my liege," Merlin replied with a grin, and despite his best efforts to stay solemn, Arthur felt himself smile.

"You really are impossible," the prince sighed, moving more into the shadow of the wood. "Completely impossible."

"Yep, that's me!" Merlin said with another grin. "The Impossible Merlin."

"You say it like it's something to be proud of." Arthur's left eyebrow was raised, though Merlin could tell from his smile that he was joking. That was the thing about their relationship. At times like this, they were friends, not prince and his servant. Both held equal respect for each other, and even Arthur, slightly arrogant and more than a little conceited, could see that Merlin was someone he should cling onto. Someone he shouldn't let go because Merlin was a true friend.

"You know," began Merlin thoughtfully, "you can always cool down in the river."

"The river," Arthur said, raising his eyebrows sceptically.

"Why not? Not scared are you?"

Arthur looked incredulously at his servant.

"Scared? Of a river?"

Merlin shrugged, smirking slightly.

"There might be snakes."

Arthur glared at him, eyes narrowed, before taking a running jump and leaping feet first into the river.

Merlin watched in surprise as Arthur disappeared beneath the bubbling surface, resurfacing after several seconds of submersion with a cough. It was deeper then Arthur had thought, and colder too. His feet were nowhere near the bottom, and he found himself treading the water in an effort to stay afloat.

"It's," he gasped, "cold!"

"You wanted to cool down," Merlin reminded him, eyes shining with glee. He didn't even try to disguise the grin that stretched from ear to ear as he watched the prince flounder about in the water like a fish. _Anyone else_, Arthur thought, _and I would have them put in the stocks for being so disrespectful. _Merlin wasn't anyone, though. He was Arthur's servant, but first and foremost, he was his friend. Still, that didn't mean that Arthur wouldn't exact his revenge when given the chance.

"Yes, but," Arthur shivered, forcing his body to move, "I didn't think it would be this cold!"

Merlin chuckled as he climbed to his feet and moved closer to the bank. When he was at the edge, he extended his hand to help pull the prince out. Arthur looked at it strangely before taking it.

It took all of Merlin's strength to keep his footing as he fought to pull the prince up the bank. Arthur came out shivering, his sodden shirt clinging to him. The sudden warmth was welcome compared to the iciness of the river, the air no longer seeming heavy but comfortable.

The two men stood side by side for a moment, staring at the water rushing past. It was like them in a way, a never ending torrent of so many things, unable to stop, unable to pause, unable to do anything other than follow the path chosen for it. No, they were not so different to it, not really.

Arthur shivered again, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso in an effort to become warm. Beside him, his servant sniggered.

"Cold?"

"Am I –" Arthur gave the servant a scandalised look. "Yes, I am cold and wet and –" Merlin's laugh cut him off and he scowled again. "What's so funny?"

"You pull the most _ridiculous _facial expressions sometimes," Merlin snorted.

"Ridiculous?"

"Yep."

Arthur grimaced slightly before a wicked smirk crossed his features. He would teach Merlin not to laugh at him. With one fluid movement, he reached out and with all his might, pushed the servant into the depths below with a laugh.

Merlin fell, his body curving as he hit the water with a splash. Down he sank, deeper and deeper, momentarily paralysed by the cold. Soon, his survival instincts kicked in and he began to struggle with thrashing limbs. He fought against current that buffeted him to and fro, seized by panic and the desperate urge to breath, aware that the oxygen in his lungs was running out. The tightness in his chest increased and without meaning to, he gasped for air. Icy water flooded his lungs, drowning him. It took him a few seconds to realise that he was, in fact dying, that every second was a second closer to the other side. He had always thought his death would have been so much more.

On the river bank, Arthur frantically searched the water for signs of life. From the moment he had seen the servant hit the water, he had realised he had made a mistake. For an instant, there had been thrashing and a great deal of surf stirred up. Then, there had been silence and a deathly stillness. Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, a pale white hand broke the service, fingers curled into claws as the owner desperately clutched at the air. Arthur did not hesitate as he launched himself into the water, taking a deep breath in the process. Then, he met the water and the world seemed to darken.

He wasn't cold like he had been before. If anything, he felt numbness and that was a feeling in itself. No, Arthur's main feeling was one of dread as he contemplated the awful truth; Merlin was about the die.

He swam to where he thought the hand had come from; eyes open despite the current of the water. Then he saw him, a dim shape still and silent and Arthur's stomach seemed to drop. He could not be dead. Arthur would not let him be dead, not over a stupid joke like this! It had been a mistake, a foolish, idiotic mistake that never should have happened. Merlin couldn't die!

Arthur swam towards the figure, his arm closing about the young warlock's chest. He kicked his legs frantically, propelling the two upwards as fast as he could. The rigid body of Merlin was deathly cold. They broke the surface with a splash and Arthur fought to stay afloat. Eventually, he managed to pull Merlin to the river edge, dragging him out by his shirt till he was laying face upwards on the mossy bank.

For a minute, Arthur lay on the bank exhausted, his arm protectively over his friend's chest. Merlin did not move.

"Merlin!" Arthur snapped through his heavy panting. "Merlin! Wake up!"

Nothing. Merlin's eyes did not open and his mouth did not move. Arthur lashed out, thumping the young man on the chest before burying his face in his hands. Water began to gush from Merlin's mouth, closely followed by a bout of coughing but the young man did not appear to be awake.

"Christ, Merlin! Please wake up! Merlin! I swear, if you don't wake up, I'll –"

"Never make me wear that stupid hat again?" a weak voice replied.

"Merlin!" shouted Arthur, pulling the young man into a sitting position and giving him a clap on the back. "You're alive!"

"No thanks to you," the warlock muttered, but there was no trace of anger in his voice. Another fit of spluttering befell him, much to Arthur's distress.

"Merlin," he cried, before changing his voice to the commanding tone of the prince. "Merlin. I'm telling you now, stop coughing."

"Can't exactly help it," Merlin gasped through his wheezes. Arthur stared at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to do, waiting for some sort of instruction from his friend.

"Help me up," Merlin asked, and Arthur hauled him to his feet. The warlock staggered slightly, clutching at the prince for support and it seemed to Arthur that his ashen face became paler, if that was possible.

"You know I'm –" Arthur broke off suddenly, unsure of what to say. He had never been very good at apologies. "You know it was an accident, right? I didn't realise you couldn't swim. I thought –"

"That explains it then," Merlin interrupted with a chuckle. His strength was beginning to return to him, though with it came tiredness. "Dangerous business, you thinking."

"I resent that," Arthur replied, "and you did tell me that you used to go in the river all the time when you live in your village."

"I said _they, _not we. I've never been able to swim. I thought you knew that, but then again, you always are more interested in talking about you."

Arthur opened his mouth to say something but shut it with a snap. It was true, he realised. Merlin was his friend, but he knew comparatively little about Merlin. Arthur had always been far more eager to talk about himself. Besides, this had been his fault and his alone. He had let himself become antagonised and he had pushed him. He hadn't been a very good friend at all.

"I guess I deserve that," he acknowledged, his forehead creasing.

"It was an accident," Merlin told him in a softened tone, raising his head a little to smile. "You didn't know."

"But I should have done."

"You're the prince," Merlin said by way of answer.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just a servant. Why would be interested in me? I mean, we both know I never wanted to be here."

"And what about now?" Arthur asked, turning to face his servant. It mattered to him, he realised, because he wanted Merlin to like him. The boy was different. Arthur would even go as far as to say he was special. "Do you want to be here now?"

"Two-sides of a coin," Merlin muttered under his breath. Arthur looked at him questioningly but said nothing.

The two men regarded the river in silent fascination tinged with a hint of fear. It gave them so much, but in the space of a few seconds, it could take it all away.

"Now then," Arthur said, eyes sparkling. "About next time."

"Next time?" Merlin squawked, alarmed.

"Yes, next time. Can I suggest some swimming lessons?"

Merlin groaned, though the corners of his mouth were upturned.

"Next time then," he replied.

"Good," said Arthur. "I won't forget it."

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**Well, there you go. That was my (failing) shot at fluff. Please read and review.**


	4. Chapter 4: Birthdays PART ONE

**AN: Chapter four is angst again, I'm afraid. However, I do rather like the idea and I hope I've done it justice. :D However, if no one likes it, I won't post the rest so you'll be spared :L.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed: Hogaboom, RixxiSpooks, FemaleSpock, Siri19, belle_91, storm-of-insanity, xxoxLOVELESSxoxx, ceiliapotts, rockqween and last but not least, myrmidryad. **

**Please leave a review, even if you hate it. I love concrit, praise, even flames tbh :L.**

**This is the first of a two part oneshot. It was going to be one but it became far too long.**

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There are moments in your life that define you, moments that set the course of who you are going to be. Sometimes, they're little, subtle moments. Other times, they're big moments you never saw coming. For Arthur Pendragon, that moment was Merlin.

0

For Arthur Pendragon, life had begun with misery. The death of his mother had cast a black cloud upon his birth, one that would taint his life for the rest of his days. Sinner he had been born and sinner he would die, a fragile figure with destruction at his finger tips.

No, Arthur Pendragon's birth was not celebrated, not in the usual way. How could it have been? Igraine was gone, gone forever, the most vital part to Uther's life! She was the one that should have held Arthur when he cried; the one he should have turned to when he grew older. Instead, Uther was left to bear the burden alone, a broken and defeated man made strong by only his hate.

Arthur Pendragon's birth passed with devastating events.

I

Arthur's first birthday came quickly. A feast was held in his honour, presents were given and people bestowed on him their blessings. Uther watched from his throne as they danced, his cold eyes burning. He remembered dancing like that once, back in his youth when he'd still had his queen by his side and a spring in his step. Those days were gone now, taken from him never to be returned. The day passed quickly and the pyres were readied. Tonight, he was going to exact more revenge.

The burning began at dusk, the first cluster of wailing witches tied to the wood. No one came to save them for all were sure of their guilt; Uther had condemned them and Uther's word was law. Hundreds he executed that night, the weak and the elderly, the strange and the strong. Sorcerers all of them, some good, some evil and others somewhere in the middle. Uther did not care, not even as the flames leapt around them in a frenzied flash of amber and gold.

Arthur Pendragon's first birthday passed watching Camelot burn.

II

His second birthday had been, on the whole, uneventful, the courtiers kneeling before his crib and paying their respects to the man who one day would be king. Uther had watched them with mild envy, his eyes darting backwards and forwards as he surveyed them all. Men with wives, women with husbands and here he was alone, the king, most powerful and influential man in the land. His position had not bought him lasting happiness.

Uther's child cooed in its cot, its cherub face alive with excitement. A thin smile came to Uther's face as he watched his son gurgle, the court ladies blushing in admiration. A fine specimen they called him; already handsome and good natured, with eyes of the deepest blue. Igraine's eyes. That's what they couldn't understand, realised Uther as he surveyed them in disdain. Arthur was not just any child, but Igraine's child, a last link to her where no other link remained. The chain had been broken.

Arthur's second birthday passed without event.

III

Three years had passed since Arthur's birth, three long years of sorrow and loneliness. For Uther, Arthur's birth signalled the end of a long and dangerous spout of revenge. For Arthur, it was just another day in the land of dreams.

Like his previous birthdays, a feast had been held in his honour though spirits were sour; today was also the anniversary of the death of the queen, a painful subject matter Uther strived to avoid. Today was Arthur's day, he said, a day of happiness and rejoicing. Nobles and peasants alike had flocked to Camelot in order to pay tribute to the young prince.

Uther also supposed that it was partly through fear that they came, worried that their absence would land them with the label of witch or warlock. In Uther's eyes, magic was an evil, a sign of a collaborator with the devil, and must be stamped out before it was allowed to spread; for those who wished to keep their necks, it was worth obeying him.

Arthur's third birthday passed with growing fear of later days to come.

IIII

The young prince's fourth birthday was by far the most mundane of his life. There was no feast, no celebration, because King Uther was away at war raiding lands in the West. He had been absent for months and didn't look set to return for at least another. Arthur's birthday was spent in the care of his maid and Gaius, the court physician and long-term friend of Uther.

Arthur's fourth birthday passed with a child crying for its father.

V

Five years to the day since he had been born, a great banquet was held for Arthur Pendragon and the visiting foreign officials. They were strange folk, keen eyed with sharp features and tanned skin, followed by whispers floating down the corridors in which they walked. Odd, people called them, and though Uther thought much the same, he welcomed them openly keen to make an allegiance.

They had presented the king's son with a gift, a bow mightier than any they had ever made. Uther had excepted it with false smiles, before locking it away in his chambers. He was afraid he realised, afraid that Arthur might die before his time like his mother, stolen from him like a penny from his pocket. He would not let it happen, not yet, not until the child was old enough to make decisions for its self.

Arthur's fifth birthday passed with the realisation that Uther's child was growing up.

VI

Six years and Arthur was growing up quickly. Uther was away again, fighting another crusade to restore peace to the kingdom. Arthur didn't mind; the absence of his father allowed him to enjoy other, riskier pursuits such as learning to swim.

The young man who taught him grew quite exasperated as he watched the young prince flounder about in the water, eyes screwed up in concentration as he battled to stay afloat. He was a natural, that much was sure, but his willingness to take on things above him left the man feeling more than a little worried. A fish, he told Arthur, should learn to swim in the pond before he battles the sea.

Arthur had simply laughed before commanding the servant to be silent. He liked his new found authority and the control it brought him. Like father, like son they said, and Arthur was proud.

Arthur's sixth birthday passed with the misconception that tyranny was heroism.

VII

Arthur's seventh birthday was uneventful, spent curled up in his chambers riffling through unwanted presents. It was dark in the castle, cold and unfriendly without the usual bustle of courtiers. Two knights had risen to the challenge of defeating each other for public entertainment and Arthur was not invited.

Too young, Uther had told him with a tight smile. Maybe next year, when Arthur was older and less prone to finding trouble. Arthur had known even then that there would be no 'next year' for many years to come. There never was where he was concerned.

Arthur's seventh birthday passed with growing hatred.

VIII

On his eighth birthday, Arthur Pendragon's world came crashing down.

It was a mistake really, something he had not been meant to know till he was older, but something he had discovered nonetheless on one of his idle trips around the castle. Locked doors did little to dissuade the king's heir, especially when he could hear the sound of murmured whispering from within. He had placed his ear to the door, listening with wide eyes at the words he could hear. Then he had cried, the true meaning of his birth upon him.

Uther had fired the servants of course, and for that day, none had escaped the claws of his wrath. He had devoured the courtier's fear and used it against them, malevolent threats to all those who knew the truth.

It was too late though, and the damage was done. Arthur Pendragon, at the tender age of eight, knew that he had been his mother's murderer.

Arthur's eight birthday passed with the ending of the song.

VIIII

Nine years to the day since he had been born, it rained leaving the young prince trapped inside. None came to visit him save for Morgana, the king's ward, a new addition to Camelot's household. Arthur wasn't sure if he liked her or not.

She was a timid thing, well spoken with raven locks and skin of palest ivory, beautiful yet altogether too strange and observant to put Arthur completely at ease. Even when her back was turned, she seemed to be watching, the blue of her gaze flickering into every alcove of his spacious chambers. No, something about her was decidedly odd. Little did Arthur know that she was thinking the same about him.

He seemed spoilt, she thought, spoilt and as cold as the winter's frost. His lofty air had done nothing to convince her that he was not just an arrogant boy, conceited and brooding with a smug sense of self-importance.

He moaned at her before commanding her to leave, bitter jealousy raging in his eyes. Ever since _she _had arrived, Uther had been preoccupied, too busy to lend a minute's attention to his only child. It was hardly fair, thought Arthur, but then was anything?

Arthur's ninth birthday passed with a child thinking far above his years.

X

Ten, and Arthur was awarded his first sword. It was a heavy thing, blunt and scratched, the handle too large for his hand and the blade too worn to cause any real damage. He cherished it with pride, unwilling to let any save himself hold it. Of course, the task of cleaning it was given to his manservant, whatever he was called. Arthur didn't care. He had no reason to. They were just servants after all, no one special. They weren't Arthur.

Uther watched Arthur with tired eyes as the latter flaunted the weapon before his peers. It had been his father's once, a long time ago in his youth when he was still a boy. He could remember watching his father twirl it about, hearing the swish of the air as the blade swirled through it. It had passed to him when his father had died. Now, it would belong to his son.

Arthur dropped the blade with a clatter, glancing up with a startled expression. Uther laughed but the humour did not reach his eyes. He had cares beyond his years, a sorrowful light in his eyes which never vanished. It was a light that Arthur shared.

Arthur's tenth birthday passed with past meeting present.


	5. Chapter 5: Birthdays PART TWO

**AN: A little overdue but you'll have to forgive me. I'm moving house tomorrow so had to pack, but I wanted to get this posted before then. Don't hesitate to tell me if it's crap. I'll probably redo it later anyway.**

**Thank you to myrimidryad, Kazuki Landen and All At Sea who I would like to dedicate this chapter to :D.**

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own this program. However, if anyone wants to give it to me as a christmas present, I'd be very much obliged ;) :L**

**BTW, the last birthday is the crowning in the episode 'Excalibur', which I am told is actually a birthday. However, it's set before we meet Mr Scary so... :L**

**Please review :)**

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XI

Arthur Pendragon's eleventh birthday was a low key affair, spent in the care of his father's knights.

Teach him the basics, his father had said, and nothing more. Arthur hadn't cared. He had been ecstatic that finally, after all the years of waiting, he was going to be taught how to handle a weapon. Not just any weapon, Uther had told him. The sword had belonged once belonged to Arthur's grandfather.

Arthur nodded, impatient to begin his training. He frowned at the knight's lecture, annoyed that they thought him stupid enough to warrant a full list of dos and don'ts. He was the prince, was he not, not some stupid peasant with no brains to his name? His mood darkened further when he was handed a wooden pole, his sword removed for 'another time'.

At last, he was given leave to begin and all his irritation vanished. He relished every movement, listening with growing excitement at the clash of wood on wood, the soft thump as it made contact with his shield. This was what he had been waiting for, ever since the days when he had stared out his window watching the knights train.

One day, he told himself, he was going to become the best of them all.

The knight sighed softly, grey eyes morose. The boy didn't understand. How could he with a father that glorified every aspect of killing and revelled in bloodshed? A father determined to purge the land at any cost. A father that had more time for his kingdom than his son.

Arthur's eleventh birthday passed with pity.

XII

Twelve and the clocks were chiming, once for every year.

In the distant wood, a bird chirped, the sound doubling as both a birthday serenade and an anniversary lament.

Deep within the walls of Camelot Castle, Uther Pendragon sighed. He knew he should be with his son, but he could not move. Twelve years to the day. Twelve, long years of this life. No, it was not a life, not really. An _existence. _That's all he had now, a desperate, miserable existence in which the only joy he experienced was harvested from memories.

No, he could not go to his son now, not when he was breaking every rule he had ever taught the child. Be brave, he had said, and strong too, because your greatest weakness is fear of what can be taken away, and with it, fear of the past. Uther was afraid of both. His fault... His fault and he had to live with it.

Arthur's twelfth birthday passed with a child awaiting its parent.

XIII

Arthur's thirteenth birthday and it was raining leaving him trapped indoors. He scowled heavily, annoyed that it was another birthday to be spent alone. The feast was not till the evening, not that Arthur cared. They were boring, just another mundane task where he ended up shoved in a corner whilst the big men had all the fun.

No, Arthur wasn't looking forward to the birthday banquet in the slightest, nor was he looking forward to the duel arranged in his honour. He wanted to be the one fighting, wanted to feel the vibrations through his hand as sword met sword. He wanted to be the one who would cry victory.

Too young, Uther had said, too young to be dreaming of death. Uther did not understand; it was not death Arthur craved but glory, and one day, he would have it.

Arthur's thirteenth birthday passed with dreams of the future.

XIIII

Fourteen, and Arthur was beginning to lose the puppy fat of his youth. A fine gentleman they called him, mistaking his arrogance for confidence, his brooding for placidness. He was attractive too, they said; blond haired with eyes the very replica of his mothers. Yes, one day, he would make Camelot proud.

For Arthur, fourteen was just another birthday spent lounging idly about the castle. The heavy rain had made it impossible to venture out, not that he wanted to anyway. Who would he go with? His father was away, the knights were busy and as for Morgana... She was too pompous, too obsessed with dresses and hair to be much company for him. Besides, girls were strange and confusing, and as much as Arthur was loathed to admit it, they were also slightly daunting.

Arthur stared out of his window relishing the feeling of the raindrops on his face. Below him, the city was bustling with Uther's people, all running to escape the bitter brutality of the rain. The young prince grinned, happy that one day, they would be his people.

Arthur's fourteenth birthday passed with a prince wanting to be king.

XV

Fifteen years to the day since he had been born, Arthur woke to snow. He watched it with fascination, amazed that something so beautiful could fall from somewhere so empty.

"A gift," his servant said before leaving the room. "A gift from heaven."

_A gift to me_, Arthur thought watching the delicate structures spiral down to the ground below his window. It covered the ground like a blanket and all looked up in wonder. It had not snowed for many years and for some, it was their first time they had ever set eyes on it.

A sudden knock on his door briefly diverted the prince's attention. He gave them leave to come in expecting his father or Gaius. Instead, the lithe form of Morgana slipped into his chambers, a small smile on her lips.

"Snow," she told him, her blue eyes shining with excitement. He nodded turning back towards the world outside the window. Morgana waited hesitantly, unsure of what to do. After several long moments, Arthur turned back towards her, noting with amusement the way she shivered.

He chuckled softly, holding his arm out. She ran to him and he wrapped her in a hug, covering her shivering form with his cloak. Both children turned to watch the remaining flakes fall from the sky, each taking silent comfort from each other.

Arthur's fifteenth birthday passed with two friends completely at peace with the world.

XVI

Sixteen winters had passed since Arthur had first entered the world and none had been as special as this. Arthur was going to compete in his first duel and he would not lose.

The fight was surprisingly strenuous considering Arthur's fighting prowess. His opponent was a middle aged knight, aided by experience but beginning to slow in speed. It should have been easy, should have been won in a matter of seconds.

Instead, Arthur was left fighting for his pride as he dodged blow after blow. His father watched him from the stands, his knuckles visibly whitening with every blow Arthur took. The prince was losing and everyone knew it.

Another blow, another dodge. Arthur danced about as the knight's sword came dangerously close to his stomach, jumping backwards before slashing out with his own. The knight blocked it easily and Arthur saw the smug gleam in his eyes. A wave of anger swamped the Prince and he struck out wildly, catching the knight in the head. The latter's helmet rang out and Arthur launched himself at his opponent. The move failed, rendering Arthur unprotected. He was on the ground in a matter of seconds, his sword metres from where he lay.

The spectators cheered but Uther was silent, watching as his only child scrambled to his feet and glanced up at the royal box. The king stared at him, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes cold.

Hot tears of anger sprang to Arthur's eyes as he realised the truth; his father was disappointed in him. Arthur had failed.

Arthur's sixteenth birthday passed with shame.

XVII

Arthur discovered war on his seventeenth birthday. They had been there for weeks, a meagre force of three hundred sent to defend a small town at the edge of Albion under siege by the enemy.

They were outnumbered, Arthur knew that, but Camelot's warriors were far more skilled then their foreign counterparts. Those men were desperate, their faces taut and haggard from lack of sleep, made ever more desperate by their hunger, because this was all this was about; a desperate nation blighted by desperate circumstances and refused Camelot's aid. These people were victims of an injustice that Arthur had been powerless to stop.

The battle commenced with a volley of arrows, some of which embedded themselves in Arthur's shield. Beside him, his comrade fell down to the earth with a sickening thump, blood pouring from his neck. The scream never left his throat.

More arrows were fired and more knights plummeted to the earth, arrows in their limbs. Arthur stared, sickened, as one of the men pulled an arrow from his gut. He had always imagined war to be glorious and valiant; instead, it was terrifying and violent and Arthur had never been so afraid.

In a flurry of movement, the enemy was upon him and Arthur had to fight to keep himself from toppling over. He found himself struggling against four different opponents, each one armed with an assortment of swords and axes. He dispatched one with a knock to the head, another with the removal of his weapon. The third was claimed by another knight and his blood quickly stained the battlefield. Only one remained standing, the burliest of the four with piercing grey eyes and gaunt cheeks and a thick, ginger beard.

The man howled threateningly before thrusting his weapon at Arthur's head. It was deflected by the prince's shield earning Arthur a roar of frustration. It came again but Arthur was ready with his sword and the axe was taken clear out of the man's hand as the latter was thrown to the floor.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, both unsure of what to do. It wasn't like a duel; this dance had been deadly, and it would end in destruction. Arthur knew he should strike but something stopped him; fear. He'd never killed a man before – at least not intentionally – and he was afraid. The feeling only lasted for a second and the sword plunged down straight into the heart of his enemy. It beat no longer and the battle was won.

Arthur's seventeenth birthday passed with a loss of innocence.

XVIII

The years passed slowly for Uther. Beside him, his son blossomed but Uther's heart stayed as cold and as distant as it had been at the time of the birth. He loved Arthur, loved him dearly but it was never enough; he had loved _her_ more and she was gone. Dead. Cold. Rotting. Dead but never forgotten.

They remembered her now, father and son stood side by side in the great hall, heads bowed and faces grave.

"Similar," one of the knights remarked, "but not the same." He was right; king and prince, father and son but neither could sway the other to their way of thinking. It was the same now, the knight realised as he watched them sink into their thrones with a sigh. They would never change. There was no hope for either of them.

Arthur scowled, blue eyes creased as he wondered why the middle-aged knight was staring at him. No, he corrected. Staring at them, not that it mattered. He always hated the first part of feasts. Bring on the alcohol was his motto, and then the fun would really begin. The knight would be forgotten and the fun would really begin.

Now where was that blasted manservant of his? Harold or Henry or whatever the insufferable fool was called. At last Arthur caught sight of him and called him over. The servant came dragging his feet heavily, a slightly terrified expression masked by a wavering facade of calm.

"Yes sire?"

"You," Arthur hissed, pulling the servant down by his collar so that his ear was at Arthur's mouth, "are late. Fetch me some wine and be quick about it!"

The servant nodded before Arthur threw him to the floor. He scampered away, eyes downcast as he tried to avoid the gaze and raucous laughter of Arthur's fellow noblemen. Pigs, the lot of them, all arrogant and conceited and doomed to live lonely lives.

Beside Arthur, Morgana frowned.

"That wasn't very nice," she remarked, earning a smirk from Arthur.

"He's only a servant, Morgana. There are others more deserving of your pity than him."

Her eyes flashed coldly and she rose from her seat with an air of disgust.

"You really can be an insufferable oaf sometimes, Arthur Pendragon."

He grinned, eyes sparkling as he spied the servant hurrying back with a platter of goblets.

"Set it here," he commanded pointing to the table in front of him. The servant obliged.

Arthur's eighteenth birthday passed with alienation of the only friends he had.

IXX

His last birthday being a teen and Arthur spent it drunk. Not his fault, he tried to tell Morgana. Not his fault at all. Henry Huntley's fault, Henry and all other manner of courtiers who'd purposely strengthened his wine. Not Arthur's fault.

"I'm sure they didn't pour it in your mouth," Morgana replied but she took pity on him all the same and dragged him to his chambers. He leant on her for support, murmuring things of little sense into her ear. His presence was oddly comforting and it warmed her heart to hear him speak devoid of anger or pride. "This is how it should have been," she muttered, pushing open the door and tugging the young prince inside.

She tucked him up in bed thoughtfully and he mumbled his thanks, slurred but earnest. He drifted off to sleep quickly, the gentle sound of his snoring soothing in the emptiness of the room. She watched him sleep for a moment, somewhat pitying him and his plight; one day, whether he wanted to or not, he would become king.

He snorted and she chuckled, unwilling to leave but knowing that she should. She paused before leaving to give him a light kiss on the forehead.

Arthur's nineteenth birthday passed with silent forgiveness.

XX

Twenty. Twenty years of loneliness for both parties. Twenty years of living without what both desired with no hope of respite. Twenty years of pain for the Pendragons.

It was unfair, Arthur thought as he watched the dancers, that she had been taken. It was even worse that Uther expected him to grieve as he did, face stony, eyes cold for the mother he had never known. His fault, he knew that, but it wasn't the same. How could he mourn someone he barely knew?

The song stopped, the welcoming peace met with a round of applause. In the corner of the room, Arthur's fellow knights were drinking, their hungry gazes fixed on unsuspecting maidens elegantly floating about the dance floor. Arthur searched for Morgana but could not see her amongst the throng. Silly girl was probably still fussing with her hair.

He marched towards his friends who gave a cheer followed by raucous laughter. Arthur grinned as one handed him a tumbler of beer; he drank greedily, smashing the cup down on the table when he had finished. Another cheer closely followed by a sigh from the Lady Morgana. He would never learn.

She watched in distaste as the group made their way to the dance floor, each one commandeering another man's partner. Any protests were silenced by threats and the dance continued. Arthur, she noticed with a slight pang of envy, had attached himself to a pretty blonde, voluptuous with dark blue eyes and high cheek bones. She smiled timidly, eyes sparkling at the fact that the prince had chosen her.

"Jealous?" A gentle voice asked. Morgana turned to see Gwen, her servant and friend stood beside her, watching the feast with morose eyes.

"He's always been fickle. The power goes to head."

Gwen shrugged. "He doesn't mean to be."

"Doesn't he?" Her tone of annoyance changed to one of resignation. "He'll never change, Gwen. Uther's presence is too great; Arthur's going to grow up to be just like _daddy."_

"Maybe," Gwen countered, "but Arthur's special. He just needs some help, that's all. You'll see."

"I hope you're right, Gwen. Camelot needs a king, not a tyrant."

Arthur's twentieth birthday passed with wishes.

XXI

Twenty-one years Arthur's been on this earth, and not one has passed in blissful happiness. He remembers them now, birthdays that had never really meant anything, had never been appreciated. They'd just been another day to get drunk, to act without consequence or compassion.

He understands now that they were all gearing towards this moment and the acceptance he's only just beginning to feel. Arthur Pendragon understands what it's like to be whole.

He's got Merlin to thank of course. Merlin and Morgana, and Gaius and Gwen... The four people who really believe in him. The four people who can see that Arthur is special, even if Uther cannot.

He sees Merlin now out of the corner of his eye, watching from afar, his lips stretched in a smile. He's chatting to Gwen, but his eyes are focused solely on the prince and the crown being set on his head.

"Crown prince Arthur," the servant mutters under his breath with a chuckle. "God help us."

The servants titter and Arthur finds himself grinning despite the sombreness of the situation. Uther frowns before commanding Arthur to rise. The smile vanishes and Arthur becomes a prince again, but his head is buzzing with thoughts of change.

He's been taught to fear change, to repel it under all circumstances, but now he understands that his teachers were wrong. Change should be welcomed, invited even, because it is needed. Merlin helped him understand that, just as he helped Arthur understand himself. He's a better person now because of it, a wiser person, and a braver person. Merlin had been his servant and his catalyst, but more importantly, Merlin had been his friend. That was all Arthur had ever wanted.

A nudge on his shoulder startles him and he looks down to see Uther's outstretched hand.

"This is a great responsibility," Uther whispers. "Do not fail me."

"I won't, father," Arthur replies, knowing that he's speaking the truth. Arthur does not fail, not where Uther is concerned.

He glances back to his servant, smiling slightly as he watches Merlin and Gwen laughing amongst themselves. Morgana is beside them, her lips twitching, and Arthur knows he'll be fine. He can face anything just as long as his friends stand beside him.

Arthur's twenty-first birthday passes with acceptance.

***

There are moments in your life that define you, moments that set the course of who you are going to be. Sometimes, they're little, subtle moments. Other times, they're big moments you never saw coming. No one asks for their life to change but it does. It's what you do afterwards that counts; that's when you find out who you really are.


	6. Chapter 6: Little Strands of Leather

**AN: Short piece of fluff about shoe laces. No idea where it came from but oh well.**

**Somehow, it developed slashy over tones despite the fact that I'm not a supporter. Ah well :o**

**Thanks to myrmidryad, my only reviewer. You're a legend and made me very happy.**** :D**

**Please read and review :D.**

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There were few things that Arthur Pendragon couldn't do. One was sing. The other was tie his shoe laces.

He was trying now, fingers moving in all manner of uncomfortable directions in a desperate bid to avoid asking his manservant for help. He could imagine him, the smug smirk, the raised eyebrow as Merlin sniggered at Arthur's predicament. No, Arthur didn't need Merlin, not this time.

Still, who had thought it would be so hard to tie two strands of leather together? Certainly not the prince who had watched his servant do it many times. Tie there, hold here, pull here; simple actions that were proving impossible.

"How do you do it?" he mumbled to himself, wincing as he pulled the strips tight across his finger. "Ow." He examined the finger with annoyance,

"You'll never get them tied like that." The amused voice of his manservant made the prince jump and a scowl quickly flitted across his features. When had Merlin got in here?

"Merlin," Arthur growled and the young man laughed.

"Arthur," he said playfully, laughing at the way the prince's knuckles whitened as he clenched them. "Do you need any help?" The question was sincere, but Merlin's tone of glee did nothing save enrage the prince.

"No, Merlin, I do not need your help," he said pointedly.

"Righttt," the young man said with a grin.

"I don't." Arthur was indignant as he finished tying the lace. "See? Perfect."

Merlin looked at the laces, not even attempting to hide his laughter.

"What," he asked between spurts of laughter, "is that?"

Arthur looked down at his boots, dismayed to find that he'd managed to tie both feet together in a knot better suited for a climbing rope. To top it off, both shoes were also laced incorrectly and were ripped in the corner from when, in a particularly stressful moment, Arthur had attempted to tear the leather apart.

"There's nothing wrong with it," Arthur lied defensively, though he eyes the knot warily all the same.

"Are you sure? I mean, it looks –"

"Look, Merlin," Arthur interrupted as he pushed himself up from the bed. He wobbled slightly, but managed to stay upright despite the fact that his feet were tied together. "I'm the prince and you are the servant. I am right and you are wrong. I am –"

"A prat?" suggested Merlin, grinning obscenely at his master. Arthur sighed heavily though a small smile made the edges of his lips twist upwards.

"You never cease to amaze me, Merlin. Never."

"Well, I am just amazing," Merlin replied with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Amazingly idiotic," the prince muttered under his breath as he went to take a step towards the younger man. Bad mistake. He toppled forward, falling into an ungracious heap upon the cold stone tiles. "Oww."

Hands on his shoulders pulled him upright and the two men struggled over to the prince's chair. Arthur flopped down without his usual grace, much to the delight of Merlin who chortled with laughter again.

"You wait," the prince growled menacingly yet without conviction. "I'll get you later."

"How are you going to do that," Merlin replied, motioning towards the prince's feet, "when you're stuck?"

"Right." Arthur reached down, determination flashing in his eyes as he battled to undo the laces. Merlin watched from afar, thoroughly lost in the humour of the moment as Arthur tore at the shoes with vehemence.

Merlin's assurance that he was safe soon proved to be incorrect, as one by one, the prince clawed the boots away from his feet. He rose, blonde hair ruffled and cheeks red.

"Merlin, come here." The servant gulped, slowly backing away with a worried expression creasing his brow. Arthur advanced towards him grinning inanely, bare feet slapping against the cold flags. "Merlin, stand still or I'll make you wear that hat."

With a gulp, Merlin paused, wide grin returning to his face. That hat was the bane of him, and yet he never hesitated to find it amusing. Nor, it seemed, did Arthur.

As Arthur prowled further towards him, Merlin dashed right, unfortunately for him, into the path of the table. He cursed as he banged his hip, knowing that tomorrow, his pale skin would be blotched by shades of purple and green.

"Got you," Arthur said, smirking wickedly as he pounced on the servant. The two writhed about on the floor, laughing and smiling, not prince and servant but friend and friend. Or was it that? Merlin found himself growing ever doubtful at the flutter in his stomach at the touch of his master, the bittersweet longing rising up within him. Wrong, he told himself, and yet so right.

The two men paused in their fun, eyes locking in a gaze that neither could pull away from. Stupid, Arthur told himself, stupid to torment himself when it could never happen. He forced himself to pull away, and the spell was broken. Pushing himself to his feet, he turned away as his manservant stood up beside him.

"Arthur?" he asked tentatively. "Arthur, I better go."

"Okay," the prince said biting down upon his lip. His back was to Merlin but he could see him reflected in the mirror, worried gaze barely masked. They weren't so different, not really; servant and master were both desperate to mask who they really were. Merlin made to leave, sneaking one last glance at the prince. "And Merlin?" the prince said, eyes twinkling. "Tomorrow, make sure you're here on time. I need someone to tie my shoe laces."

The two men grinned, united over little strands of leather.


	7. Chapter 7: Henry's Angel

**AN: Random one-shot, not sure if I like it or not so might take it down later depending on feedback :/**

**Thanks to Myrmidryad and XtremeFrolickerer89 for reviewing the last chapter. They're always welcome and greatly appreciated :D**

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It's battle. At least, it will be imminently. Two armies, vast in size, about to fight for control over a few acres of land in Albion and in amongst the throng are the two generations of Pendragon; the King and his boy.

Arthur's heart is pounding in his chest as he watches his father raise his sword. Of course, the young Pendragon has seen battle before, but never on this scale. The opposing army is outnumbering them two to one and the chance of a win is looking slim. It's going to take all of Uther's prowess to win, and all of Arthur's strength to keep his men from fleeing.

"We can do this," he shouts, his voice all but drowned out by the roar of the opposition. His men look at him with wide, uncertain eyes; the prince is just eighteen, still a boy. Uther is being a fool having him in charge of his own section in the army. They are all doomed, doomed to die and for many of them, they're never going to see the sun again.

Rain pounds at the ground, great drops seeping through their armour and into their skin itself. _Fitting, _thinks Arthur as he stares up at the burnt orange sky crowned by clouds of black despair.

He turns his gaze back to his men; some quake, some cry, others mutter prayers to God. All are doubtful. All are scared. All are wondering what they are actually fighting for. Arthur wishes he could tell them but he's not sure himself. Is he fighting for his king? For victory? For the people in Albion whose lives are being threatened? No, he realises. He's fighting for his father and the little respect he has.

Uther raises his sword again, brandishing it high above his head. The men behind him cheer, knights, soldiers, all united by a common hatred; the enemy must die.

It's different for Arthur. He's not hardened by war, doesn't fully understand the carnage that's about to ensue. All he can think of are the men, his men, the men who like him have families and friends, dreams and aspirations, and he sees war for what it really is. A thief, a stealer of chances and lives.

Uther begins his speech, his words echoing out across his army.

"Dark. Dark will be Camelot's future if we should fail. These invaders, these barbarians are evil! They will sweep through Albion like a plague, killing all in sight, men, women children; your children! They care not for age, sex or creed. Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none! Good men of Camelot, fight, fight now for the glory of victory. Fight for your king!"

A roar rises up amongst the army, and only Arthur's unit stays solemn. They're strong willed, but they're frightened and no fancy speech from their king is going to change that. Murmured whispers sweep through the men, doubt mingled with fury.

Arthur's horse shifts nervously. The prince pats its neck and murmurs soothing words into its ear, though whether they're for him or it he doesn't know. The soldiers stare up at him as he turns his mount to face them, grim determination on his face.

"I know you think I'm just a boy. I know you think I'm not the leader you deserve nor the leader you want, but I _know _that we can beat this! Some of you will die, but if you do, you're dying with honour and glory, safe in the assumption that your king will –"

"Will what?" An outspoken soldier spits. "Will give us a fitting funeral?" The scorn in his tone is evident and Arthur recoils from his angry gaze, ashamed that he does not know the man's name. The soldier continues, forcing his sword into the earth between his feet, "Will honour our passing by saying that we died for what we believed in? That we died for the king? Some condolence it will be for our families knowing that we died to save a man who never –"

"No," Arthur interrupts, certain that he doesn't want to hear anymore. "No. When you fight, you're not fighting for me, or the king, or what someone is telling you to believe in. You're fighting for Camelot's people; your mothers and fathers, your sons and daughters, your brothers, your sisters, every last one of them, even the people you don't know! You're not fighting for land but for dreams and aspirations, for hopes for the future, and if you die, you know that you died doing what is right for them. It's okay to be scared; we all are, them included." He points towards his father but their eyes don't stray from his face. "These invaders will not stop here! Allowed to win, they will swarm all over Albion into your homes and they will kill all that resides there! That's what we're fighting for; freedom and a safe place for your family to dwell in peace."

"And what are you fighting for?" the same soldier asks, but his tone is considerably softened from when he last spoke.

"I'm fighting for Camelot," the prince says simply.

The soldier opens his mouth to respond, but the words are drowned out by the trumpets heralding the start of battle. Uther gives the order to charge just as Arthur's horse rears, its silhouette black against the setting sun. The rain continues to pour and the men surge forward.

The king drops behind, closely followed by his small band of knights. The men expect the prince to and their momentarily stunned when he urges his horse faster. Someone shouts his name, but he's too stubborn to stop. For the moment, he's just an ordinary solider, not the heir to the throne. For the first time in Arthur's life, he's just a man.

The two armies meet with a clashing of weapons. Shouts and screams fill the air, the sound of metal upon metal as each man strikes out for himself. Arthur slashes at his enemy, imagining them as Uther sees them; barbarians and dangerous assassins, not men like himself. Imagining them as human makes it so much worse.

He continues forwards and all around him, the enemy falls until one gets lucky and sweeps the legs out from under his horse. The prince and his mount crash to the ground and Arthur barely misses being crushed. Arthur struggles to his feet, watching in horror at the blood spurting from the gashes on the creature's legs.

A badly aimed dagger whistles past his ear and he's back in the moment, striking out at all within reach. A few metres to his right is the soldier who argued with him, the one who had made him realise what he was fighting for. The man's a decent fighter but he's overwhelmed and in a matter of seconds, he's down.

Henry his name is, and he's lying on the battlefield, blood gushing from the wound in his stomach. The blood loss makes his vision hazy, and he turns his head to the side. There's Uther on his horse, sword smiting down the enemy. To his right are the knights on their mounts gallantly fighting in a desperate bid to save their king from the death sweeping all other soldiers, the ordinary citizens not deemed important enough for them to protect. Everywhere lies the fallen; bruised, battered, broken... Dead. Oh God. There's blood, so much blood and the nearby river's running red.

A sudden roar of anger grabs his attention and he sees a figure, a dark silhouette against a halo of light. It appears to Henry that whoever it is has wings and they're floating above the carnage, silver helm shining despite the lack of sun.

"A guardian angel," he stammers, clutching at his stomach in a bid to stop the blood. "A herald of God!"

The angel fights with a passion rarely seen among the battle field and he hews at the enemy with a steady arm. The rain glances off his armour, washing off the blood and trickling down to the ground below and Henry knows, knows that they're going to win because something is on their side.

Soon the war is won and Camelot claims victory, albeit with heavy losses. Albion's men lie dead on the battle field and everyone is dashing around in a desperate bid to save the wounded. The angel kneels at Henry's side but the light is fading to reveal a blood streaked man breathing heavily and he realises who it is; Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, a lonely figure with hands of crimson.

Henry looks up at his face of the man he has up until now despised. The mouth is down turned, the eye brows creased, eyes wet; Henry might even go as far as to say that he is crying.

"I'll save you," Arthur swears but Henry only shakes his head, green eyes sad.

"No you won't," he replies. He dies smiling.

A silence falls on the battle field, morose moments of lamentation as Arthur rocks with his head in his hands. He's failed, failed his men. Uther calls, beaming at the sight of his son apparently unharmed and Arthur stands, once again silhouetted by light. The battle is over and Arthur's the angel amongst the fallen.


	8. Chapter 8: Fanfiction?

**AN: Be warned; this is a total crack! fic inspired by a lot of redbull and a handful of haribo. Luckily, it's pretty short :L.**

**Pretty simple language btw (almost childish at some points I'm afraid); not the best, but it kind of required it :L.**

**Dedicated to Myrmidryad for being a great reader and reviewer ;) :D**

**Please, please, please review. I had like, over 200 visitors for the last chapter and only one review :o :(.**

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It was just another day when Arthur found it; a strange, thin object that had mysteriously made its way into his chambers. It was silver, the colour of metal, but metal it was not. No, it was a strange material, hollow-sounding and smooth. The prince eyed it warily, unsure of whether to approach it or not.

He circled round it, eyes coming to rest on a piece of elaborately decorated parchment signed with four simple words;

_To Arthur,_

_A gift._

"A gift?" he said aloud, wondering who on earth it was from. It looked expensive; Morgana maybe, or one of his knights? "Oh well. What harm can it do?" His fingers traced the smooth material, stumbling briefly over a crest; Sony, it said. "Never heard of it," Arthur said to himself and he wondered what family it belonged to. As he studied it, he realised that it was composed of two parts kept together by three, small hinges. He lifted the lid quickly, giving an audible gasp at what he saw.

There was a mirror of some sort set in a silver frame, black emptiness with the occasional smudge of a finger print. On a different section lay letters and strange symbols, all displayed on some sort of spongy base. Arthur stabbed at it with his fingers and at once the object came to life with a chime.

Arthur leapt back, eyes wide as he contemplated what devilry had been exacted to create such a sound. Something on it flashed, amber then green and the blackened screen burst in shades of white and blue.

The first thing that caught his eye, after he had admitted a high pitched shriek of course, was the words '' at the top of the screen.

"Fan-fiction?" said Arthur with a frown that soon turned to a smile. "Well, I certainly have many fans. It's only natural that they would want to write about me."

He looked further down the page, eyes coming to rest on the words 'A Forbidden Love'. They were underlined and in a bolder print then the rest of writing, and Arthur in his brilliance correctly assumed it to be the title of the piece. Directly underneath it were the words 'slash' and A/M.

"Slash? A/M?" exclaimed Arthur, completely befuddled. "What's that?"

The answering silence did little to inform him and he began to read, surprised to find that the primary characters in the piece were himself and Merlin.

"Merlin?" he scoffed after reading a particularly flowery paragraph focusing on his servant. He reread it, his mouth becoming a thin line amongst pale skin. Truth be told, he was slightly annoyed that the servant was stealing his limelight. "Why on earth has someone written about Merlin?"

He read on, eyebrows arching at the occasional reference that he found strange and obscene. _Arthur felt a sudden pulling on his loins and the urge to embrace the other man rose within him._

"What?" he snapped, eyes bulging in surprise. "Why would I want to embrace _Merlin?_"

And then he saw it, and with it came a horrific sense of understanding. A/M stood for only one thing; Arthur/Merlin. He reread the awful thing twice, both sickened and absorbed by the short passage.

"Splayed the servant's legs? Eased himself in?" The prince's voice shook as he spoke, his face becoming a frightening shade of green. "Tongue lapped at... That's hardly possible. Me and a _servant!_ This... this... this... this is..." For once in his life, the young Pendragon was lost for words. "This must be destroyed!" he squeaked eventually, green fading to an unnatural shade of white. "This must –"

"They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness." The sudden interjection made the prince jump, blue eyes wild as he slammed the lid of the object shut. "What's that?" Merlin asked, curiosity raging in his gaze.

"A... A... I have to go," Arthur stammered, face reddening at the sight of his servant. He found his gaze drifting to Merlin's lips and he pulled it away, annoyed that the dreadful writing had muddled his brain. He'd never be able to look at Merlin in the same way again!

"Oh," the sorcerer replied, goofily grinning at his master. "Okay."

Arthur scarpered quickly, knocking papers to the floor in a desperate bid to escape. He didn't stop to pick them up, focused only on getting away from the younger man – and that awful story - as fast as possible.

Merlin watched him go, slightly surprised that the prince was acting so strangely and out of character. Arthur was not one to run away when problems arose; he was a fighter, stronger by far than most of the people Merlin knew. What was it that had him running for cover?

Merlin crept over to silver object, curiosity convincing him that if he was quick, no ramifications would come of his disobedience. He knew he should leave, but the thought was unexciting; a few minutes couldn't hurt. Could it?

He opened the object, surprised to find that the inside was lit by some sort of invisible candle. He lifted it up, searched underneath it for any form of light source but found none. Magic, he eventually settled one, and at once, he became suspicious. Had Arthur gone to tell Uther of the mysterious object and its magical properties?

Merlin inched closer and began to read.

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**AN: Please review :). I'll love you if you do. I'll even spare some cookies ;). Also, if you guys liked this (odd) fic, I'll write up Merlin's reaction as well?**


	9. Chapter 9: Star Gazing

**AN: Sorry for the late update. I really don't like this oneshot so I may take it down later, but I thought it was good to inject some fluffiness :L I write too much angst I'm afraid.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed :D Cookies for everyone that does :D**

**Random thing but I'm kind of writing two at once and want to know which one people would prefer to have next:**

**- Morgana having a vision of the Doctor and being both scared and fascinated by him (a cross over :L)**

**- Gwen reflecting on the death of her father.**

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Merlin always hated staying out for overnight hunts. All part of the job, Gaius told him, but still the idea did not sit very well. It was always cold and besides, Merlin was certain that the only real reason Arthur made him tag along was to spite him.

The prince was there now, huddling around the fire wrapped in furs and blankets whilst tearing into some sort of rabbit they had caught today. It was odd to see him without his usual gaggle of knights about him. For once, it was easy to see him as the man he wanted to be rather than the heir that he was.

If only they could both be something simpler. Merlin loved his magic, but recently, it had been causing more problems than cures. There was the constant fear, a dread that one day, it might be him facing the executioners axe and then there was the constant hassle of having to think up excuse after excuse to get himself out trouble's eye.

A sudden blast of cold air hit him and Merlin found himself involuntarily glancing up at the sky; dark black and speckled by diamonds. Stars. Oh to be a star! How easy it must be just to sit up in the sky and _shine_.

"What are you thinking?" A curious voice asked from somewhere in the gloom. At once, Merlin's gaze dropped to Arthur's face, a canvas covered in shadows that flickered in the fire light.

"Nothing," Merlin replied. Recently, nothing had become his answer to almost everything Arthur asked him; it was easier that way, less tempting to let slip the truth which had to remain hidden at all costs.

"Don't lie to me, Merlin." Merlin couldn't see Arthur's face, but if he had, he was certain that the blond eyebrows would have been raised. "You're awful at it. Absolutely useless."

Merlin chuckled, wringing his hands nervously before speaking.

"If you must know, I was looking at the stars."

"Stars?" Arthur scoffed.

"Yes," Merlin said, defiantly daring Arthur to contradict him as he resumed gazing at the sky. "Stars."

"Oh. Well, _that's_ interesting."

"It is actually," Merlin replied somewhat distantly, Arthur's sarcasm washing over him. There was a long pause filled by an empty sort of silence, broken only when Arthur's curiosity got the better of him.

"What is your fascination with them anyway?"

"With what?" Merlin's gaze snapped from the sky to his feet and he shifted on the spot.

"The stars."

"Oh." He paused slightly, contemplating the answer. What was it that he admired so much about them? Was it that they always shone every night no matter what? The fact that they were never changing, always stable from one night to the next? No, he realised. The truth of it was, Merlin loved the stars because they were untouchable; no human had, or probably would, ever touch one and because of that, they were beautiful.

"I just think they're beautiful." The words escaped his lips before he could suppress them and he bit his lip nervously. Arthur wouldn't understand. Merlin doubted that he would want to.

"Beautiful?" Arthur's voice gave away his surprise; it was unusual for Merlin to describe anything as handsome. At least, it was for Arthur to hear him do so; the boy always seemed so secretive and reserved. "I suppose they are..."

"Yep," replied the man servant. "If you look for it, you can see pictures in the sky to."

"Pictures?" Arthur was truly sceptical now. "You do talk rubbish, Merlin. Pictures in the sky..." He laughed, eyes dark.

"There is!" Merlin protested. "See there." He pointed at a band of three stars stretched out across the night sky, tracing their path gently with his finger. "That's Orion's Belt, part of the constellation of Orion. It's visible all year round from where ever, you know." Arthur found himself grinning slightly at the pride with which Merlin spoke. "Oh, and that one is called Draco. It appears to flip over so it looks different in the summer compared to how it looks in the winter..."

"Who taught you this?" Arthur's voice was soft, surprised even.

"Oh." Merlin felt his cheeks redden and was glad that his face was partly obscured by shadows. "Gaius mainly, but my mother taught me a few things."

"Hunith knows about stars?" Again the surprise. Merlin found himself grinning slightly at the prince's evident interest.

"Well, there wasn't exactly much to do back home at night. Will and I used to get mam' to tell us about them then see if we could find them." Arthur smiled at the humour in Merlin's voice but he spoke with a sincere tone.

"You miss it don't you?"

"Miss what?"

"Your village. Your mother. Your friends."

Merlin nodded before realising that it was lost in the darkness. "Yes."

After a few seconds of silence, Arthur replied,

"Well, you know that you are always welcome to visit there. When we're not hunting of course. Or having a feast. Or a tournament. Or fighting some great evil that's come to take over the land. Or..."

"I get the idea," Merlin chortled. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Careful, Arthur. You're almost going soft." The two men grinned, their faces illuminated by the firelight. It was easy like this; there was no restrictions, no barriers. Here, they could be equals.

A brief moment passed before Arthur spoke,

"Merlin?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"_Which _one is Orion?"

Morning came to reveal two little boys watching the sky.


	10. Chapter 10: Letter of a Desperate Man

**AN: Aha, no one gave me a reply as to which they would prefer so they got this hash instead :L. It's bit of a mess tbh, composed in about ten minutes when I was feeling particularly miserable. It's supposed to be a letter written to Merlin by Arthur on the eve of the latter's death.**

**On a later date, I may write more letters like this is people like them to add some variety to the fic :)**

**All reviews are very welcome and very much appreciated :D Thanks to everyone who's put this fic on their alerts/favourites etc :D**

**IMPORTANT NOTE: The underlined sections were supposed to be striked-through suggesting that Arthur had crossed them out. However, this site doesn't seem to support that :/ so they had to become underlined. **

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_Merlin,_

_Why won't you come back to me? I've written so many letters but you've never replied. I_

_I hate you. How could you leave me when I needed you most! I wish I'd never met you. In fact, I wish you were never born. If I ever see you again, I'll kill _

_There is so many things I need to say to you, Merlin. I can't write them, not really; the words won't flow. They're stuck in my hand, biding their time. They don't like this, this cowards way; they want to be spoken, want to flow on the air as they once did. _

_Even if you come back now, I won't ever forgive you. You've hurt me so much, leaving like that with all those things left unsaid. _

_It's been years since we last met. I often wonder what you look like. A day over twenty? I doubt it greatly; in all the time I've known you, it has been I who was withered and aged becoming somewhat bent and frail. Looking at my face, you might not know it, but it's there. Gwen knew. That's why she left in the end, left with the one who was meant to be my closest friend. I had to pretend it was some great betrayal, that I was hurt, but secretly Merlin, secretly, I was relieved. There was no need to pretend any longer. We both knew that I never loved her. She was just there, just someone who was left when all the carnage was cleared. You were gone, Morgana was gone..._

_I would have married her, you know, insanity and all. I loved her just as you loved Gwen. I know you were hurt when I married her, but I was hurting to. You left soon after and I was denied both the woman I loved and the man I relied on more than any other. Cruel fate that neither of us ended up with who really wanted. _

_I sometimes wonder if you miss me at all? Do you ever think about me, Merlin, the friend you left behind? I like to think that you do. That you're still some sort of hero, always noble, always true. The same old Merlin that used to polish my armour and lace my boots. I miss your smile. I miss the light you used to bring into my life. The sun doesn't rise anymore. It hasn't done for years._

_Would you care though? Brave Merlin, valiant Merlin, always so selfless. I used to think that. We all did until you up and went. Off with her, the rest of us forgotten. Off to spread your evil and bring misery to the world. My father was right about your kind. You're all the same, all self-centred and interested in yourself. I think that _

_Are you happy Merlin? I hope you are, even with her. Time's supposed to fly when you're happy. It passes so slowly for me, a constant thorn in my side. I find myself praying for the end. Everyone has gone; you, Morgana, my father, even Gwen, sweet dependable Gwen. Death's lonely march draws ever closer. They accuse me of being foolish, but I know, Merlin. I've seen death so many times. _

_The battle's tomorrow. Mordred, the bitter foe whom we helped as a child. To think that in doing so, I signed my own death warrant is a strange concept._

_Why won't you come back and_

_I've been dreaming about tomorrow a lot. They're not dreams like Morgana used to have, nor the sort of idle, odd dream I'm accustomed to having; they're full of dark images, screaming and death. My death. _

_I can't write any more, Merlin. I can't allow myself to become unfocused, to get lost in the past. You, Nimueh, Morgana.... You're all echoes now, nothing more. Mordred is everything now; the past, the present, even the future. There is no life away from him or his evil. You're not everything anymore._

_Should we not meet again, I have one request. Remember me, Merlin, remember me as I was once, not as the weak, piteous old man that I am now. Remember me as I was the first time we met; arrogant, insincere, insensitive. Remember me as a prat, your prat. Remember me as Arthur. _

_Always your friend,_

_Arthur_


	11. Chapter 11: Morgana Dreams

**AN: This is probably one of the shortest things I've ever posted on here, but it's been a random plot bunny that's been nagging me for ages. Basically, it's a crossover between Merlin and Doctor Who, though a very minor one. I might do more in future if people like it. :)**

**Enjoy and please press that little review button :D**

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Morgana dreams. She dreams of many things; of water, and of fire, of life and of death, but mainly, she dreams of _him._

He's always there, a solitary figure fighting the entire world; men, women and sometimes, things that Morgana is certain have root in her nightmares. Such beings, such inhumanity cannot be possible, not even through magic. He fights them all, triumphant but so battered and bruised that he is beyond the point of fixing. Every war breaks him that tiny bit more.

Looking at him from a distance, you wouldn't know it. He's handsome in appearance yet somewhat awkward looking, a boy still struggling with the idea of being a man. This boy's been a man for far too long. In fact, Morgana realises, the only thing that speaks of the true tragedy within are his eyes, those _old_ eyes, dark eyes, windows to a darker mind. His gaze is haunting, tinged by a sadness so great, she can't even hope to understand. She doesn't want to.

Sometimes, he's companionless. Other times, he's with someone – a girl here, a boy there – but he's always alone, always _so _alone. They can't understand him though they try; in a way, it's because he won't let them. Better to keep his secrets then to risk the reaction it would bring.

She's never met him, but Morgana feels connected to him somehow. They're both two people with nothing to lose and everything to hide. Both are tired. Both are morose. Both are lost. Lost. You could drown in the misery of those eyes, she decides. Her gaze tries to drift away but then it's back again, locked onto them like a vice. She's never seen eyes like that before. There almost inhumane.

She wonders how old he is. Where is he from? Not Camelot, no, _definitely _not Camelot. His manner and his dress are unknown to her; robes of some sort and a long, brown cloak with sleeves, highly unfitting for Camelot's earthy feel. The outfit seems to go hand in hand with the sometimes-cheeky smile or the sometimes-angry grimace. She knows which one she sees more often.

When she studies him closer, Morgana finds herself being reminded of Merlin. There's that same inane grin, the mirrored look of incomprehensible sadness in both their eyes, the same strong sense of right and wrong... Then there's all the secretiveness. Morgana doesn't need her visions to tell her that her friend is hiding something from the rest of the world. She has her suspicions but Morgana knows when to keep her mouth closed. People who indulge in mindless gossip often fall into distrust themselves.

The dream seems different tonight. There's an aura of desperation about him and it frightens her. She's never seen him look so wild and there's blood on his hands and death on his conscience.

He says something but the words don't drift to Morgana's ears; they're lost somewhere in the vortex that is life, lost along with him. She shudders briefly, hating that word, wishing more than anything that she could do to save him. He speaks again, shouting this time and she realises what he's trying to say. Then, the world plummets into blackness and the man disappears.

Morgana wakes up screaming, certain of only one thing; the Doctor is gone.


	12. Chapter 12: Oh Bother

**AN: On one very boring day, my cousin and I (mainly I ;]) came up with this. It's incredible random and more than a little weird but I hope it amuses you as much as it amused us. :L **

**Warning: Very bad CRACK FIC! Shameful even :L. Hope no one is offended.**

**Reviews are love. Let me know if you want more of these; our sick and twisted little brains are loaded ;) :L**

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Places you wouldn't want a Merlin character to pop up in:

* You're working the late shift at the local fast food restaurant. Out of boredom, you start to wish that your favourite Merlin character would materialise in front of you. Lo and behold, they do... right inside the deep fat fryer. Would you like that with fries?

* You're practising your blade skills at the local fencing class hoping that one day, you'll be able to rival Arthur. Unfortunately, you didn't count on him popping up just as you sliced at the space in front of you. Maybe you can stitch his head on again if you try hard enough...

* On a field trip to the local zoo, you start to wish that someone from Merlin might go round with you. Up pops Morgana... right in the middle of the lion's den. Maybe you should send some flowers...

* In the middle of a mosh pit. Unlucky.

* You're bored stiff sat at your computer screen reading Merlin fanfiction and begin to fantasize about the title character appearing before you. Wish granted. Unfortunately for him, you didn't count on him appearing _outside _of your fiftieth story flat. Damn.

*You hate being dragged to see your Gran at the local lunatic asylum but your family insists that you go. Whilst there, you wonder what would happen if Uther turned up. Funnily enough, a few moments later, you see him being dragged into the asylum crying, "I'm King of Camelot!"... "Yeah right."

* Upon receiving the Merlin box set for your birthday, you rush upstairs and watch it. You wish that one of the male leads would pop up in your closet in nothing but their birthday suit. A moment later, the door opens to reveal... Gaius. Maybe you can convince him to pay for the counselling.

* Totally bored whilst visiting the local aquarium, you wonder whether Arthur's ever seen a shark. He ends up getting even closer than you when he appears on the _other side_ of the tank. Needless to say, the sharks don't go hungry. Hopefully, they'll let you collect the pieces...

* You're sat staring out of the window on the bus wishing that Lancelot could take up the seat beside you. Shockingly, he appears beside you, unaware that he's just appeared where a thirty stone man is about to sit down. Pancake, anyone?

* Couldn't think of an anecdote for this one, but what about if one appeared in the centre of the sun? Hot, hot, hot!

* In the middle of a London tube line. At least it would be quick...

* You're on a hot date with your new boyfriend who sadly is not living up to expectations. You wish that Arthur would turn up so you could go off with him. Soon after, you see him... swapping numbers with your boyfriend. Better luck next time.

* At the local firing range. Ouch.


	13. Chapter 13: Gwen's Saviour

**AN: Ah, my longest fic for ages :D Be warned that this is a very dark hurt/comfort centering around Gwen and involves a very serious issue. **

**All reviews are awesome; please do review, be it good or bad. For the last few chapters, I've had over two hundred hits and less than five reviews. :|**

**Slight Gwen/Arthur shipping**

**Enjoy and BE WARNED!**

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Gwen hates working when it's dark. Of course, she never tells The Lady Morgana for fear of offending her but when the night draws in and the streets fall into blackness, Gwen develops a sudden dislike of her job. It's not the fact that she has to work longer – no, Gwen likes to spend time with her mistress – nor is it the fact that she has lots more jobs thrust upon her. The simple truth is that Gwen dislikes working late because of what happens when the sun goes down.

It's not just her that notices that the city takes on a much sinister atmosphere after dark. The castle's servants, they talk, whispers and rumours of eerie spectres walking the building's corridors and strange noises arising from the dungeons. Others speak of the victims of tyrannical reigns wandering about the streets, calling for lost sons, dead mothers, ruined fathers... Old wives tales, some of them say, but even they walk about at night with a swift sort of hurry that they never display in the day. Gwen herself swears she has seen a phantom or two but she keeps her mouth shut and her head down. What use is it to talk about things better left unmentioned, especially when there are darker things that stalk Camelot's streets at night? No. For Gwen, it's not the ghosts that scare her. It's their warm-blooded kin that makes her blood run cold.

She can see them now as she hurries home, wine bottles in hand as they loiter just out of view of the castle's gate. Before now, she's watched them before with repulsion, their vulgar chants echoing in her ears. Now, it's different; she supposes that she's used to seeing the knights drunk – it happens often when they have a lot of time on their hands – but that still doesn't stop that consuming feeling of dread from rising up within her. It engulfs her and she prays, prays that for once, they will let her pass unheeded and without comment.

Her prayers are not answered.

"Hello there." Gwen doesn't look up to see who has spoken instead quickening her pace and staring harder at the floor. The cobbles look an odd shade of silver in the light, frightening yet enchanting at the same time. "Oi! You there! I command you to stop or I shall have you arrested quicker than you can fall to your knees and beg my forgiveness!" The man's voice frightens her; it's a snarl almost, frightening and animalistic.

Her heart beat quickens in her chest and she debates about running, but in the end she stops. She's heard the stories of people imprisoned for even looking at them the wrong way when they're intoxicated and she knows that her word against their word will not be believed. He seems to know that to as he speaks in a low drawl.

"Good girl. Now come here."

Gwen can't seem to stop her feet from forcing her forward. The man laughs and the others join in. It's only now that she looks up that she realises who she is talking to; she's seen this particular knight before talking to Arthur. She might even go so far as to say that he was one of Arthur's friends.

He watches her through cold eyes, face flushed from the alcohol he's so recently consumed. He grins at her demonically and a shiver passes down Gwen's spine.

"Oh look," one of the other knights slurs, his dark eyes bright with anticipation. "It's the wench's maid!" The men laugh again and Gwen feels herself blush with anger; how dare they call The Lady Morgana a wench! The six men carry on grinning whilst she loiters nervously, wrapping her brown shawl tighter about her shoulders.

"She's shivering," another remarks with what Gwen can only describe as pleasure.

"We'll soon sort that out."

She doesn't like the way they're looking at her, let alone what they're saying. There's a hunger in their eyes and she doesn't need to be a physician to work out that it's one not quenchable by food or drink. For the first time in her life, Gwen begins to understand real fear.

"Please," she begins. "Please. I just want to go –"

There's a sudden tug at her arm and the shawl falls from her shoulders. His grip is like iron and she opens her mouth to cry out. The hand clamped across her mouth silences her and the scream dies as tears spring from her eyes. _This is it. This is the end._

The sudden desperation gives her strength and she lashes out, kicking and scratching and biting with teeth that sink into tanned flesh. The man snarls with pain, momentarily letting go of her and she seizes her chance to escape. She's not fast enough. The backhand catches her in the face and she falls to the ground, stunned.

"Now be a good girl," the knight with dark hair says as he rolls her onto her back, "and lie still." The other five knights snigger at her wide eyes as they pin her to the ground. They exult in her fear, thrive off it even. She's pretty, they think, but disposable. That's the way they like their victims.

"Morgana..." Gwen manages to gasp out as the dark-haired knight, the one who had started the whole, sorry tale, leers above her. What would her mistress think when she found out what had happened? Would she be ashamed to have had such a servant? No doubt the men would say that she consented, that what they were about to do to her was _voluntary. _And who would argue with them, defend her honour when she got out of this? _If _she gets out of this. The situation looks bleak and Gwen's not counting on a happy ending.

"Don't worry. We'll make sure your little friend finds someone else to crawl about after her." More raucous laughter. _Don't cry, _she's thinking, _don't cry! Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you fall apart. _It's not easy and she shuts her eyes tightly as one of the men begins to pull at her dress. The sudden sound of a sword being drawn chills her to the bone and at last, a sob escapes her. She doesn't hear what is said, doesn't care to listen...

It's with surprise that she finds herself being pulled to her feet, firmly but gently. Brown eyes flutter open and meet with blue ones. She's never seen them burn so brightly or fiercely. The relief alighted in her is too great and her legs collapse beneath her. He grabs at her and slips an arm round her waist to stop her from falling again.

"I'll deal with you later," he says to the knights, and even in their inebriated state, they realise that he means business. Fury radiates from him and they are afraid. "Come on, Gwen."

It takes longer than normal to reach Gwen's house; her legs won't work properly and the air isn't flowing to her lungs. In the end, he resorts to carrying her, arms wrapped about her protectively as they move through the streets. She's too tired to say anything. He's too angry; Gwen can feel him shaking, though perhaps it's her.

Upon reaching the house, he places her upon the bed gently before turning back and shutting the door. She struggles to sit up, aware that she's about to dissolve into tears at any second. He gets out his handkerchief and dabs at her face; it comes back crimson. Gwen isn't even aware that she's been bleeding.

"Thank–" she begins before the rest of the words are lost in her sobs. The man moves closer so that he is sat right beside her, apprehensive, before nervously reaching out and placing an arm round her shoulders. She sinks into him and he wraps his arms tighter about her, gaze soft. He can't put how sorry he is into words.

When at last she's cried herself out, he stands.

"Please," she says before she can stop herself. "Please don't leave me! They might... they... what if they come back?" The last word is barely a whisper, but the terror in the words is evident.

"I'll stay," he tells her, resuming his place on the bed. Eventually, she falls her asleep with him holding her, her deep breathing calming in the darkness. He's still so angry, so very angry, and all he can see is red.

Gwen wakes in the morning with panic, certain that her saviour will be gone, that she will wake to find _them_ in her room, leering at her as they had. The feeling evaporates as soon as she sees him sat in that old wooden chair where her father used to sit so often. She doesn't mind. Her rescuer breathes shallowly as he sleeps and the expression on his face is anxious, protective even.

Gwen's certain that he's an angel.

He wakes to find her scuttling about the room, face flushed as she gathers clean clothes.

"Gwen –" he begins as he stands before she cuts him off.

"I'm late!" Her face is fearful, the expression only disappearing when the man lays a comforting hand on her arm.

"I think Morgana can cope without you for an hour or so."

She nods, sinking into the chair. Arthur stays with her until she leaves.


	14. Chapter 14: Fanfiction? Part Two

**AN: This is part two out of the fanfiction fics and Merlin's reaction. It's not as good as Arthur's was, probably because I was trying to write two different fics at once :L Anyway, a bit later, I shall be writing a part three I have decided so stay tuned ;)**

**The bold bits are modelled on the author's notes from various fics in both this fandom and others that I've had the misfortune of reading :L**

**Cookies to everyone who has reviewed :D**

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It took Merlin a long time to muster up the courage to touch the object again after he put it down. After a few minutes of staring at it blankly, the screen darkened and Merlin jabbed at it with a long, white finger in the hope that it might wake up. It didn't respond at first so he tapped at it again, finger twice hitting a small, rectangular section of the object. The screen lit up but it was not the same one as before.

"Oops," Merlin said, but he was reluctant to try and change it back for fear of breaking the object, which for all he knew might have catastrophic results. Instead, he tried to understand what was written on the top of the page underneath a bright, multi-coloured banner. The words were strange, foreign even, a nonsensical rambling composed of jumbled letters and strange symbols. He stared at until the letters became fuzzy and his head began to hurt.

**Dis is ma 2ndd storyyyy abot arther n merlin gettin iton n hafin SEX. Dunt u fink dat is well hawt??!!!!! OMG arther is da sex!!1111111 I is such a fangurll!!! Flamerz n haterz r well jealous. Fnx to ma beta emziii!!1111 I luv u gurl. **

After five minutes, he decided to read on having made no sense of it other than the fact that he was in it and that the person writing clearly was in need of spelling lessons. Having been taught to read and write only at fourteen, Merlin was not the most competent speller in the world himself and often wished for the prowess of Arthur who would have undoubtedly found meaning for the words. However, even Merlin could manage to make his words legible!

After reading a few lines, everything became much clearer. The object was telling a story of which seemed to consist of him and Arthur spending time together in Arthur's chamber. It was with a grin that Merlin continued to read having noticed that in every line so far, Arthur's name was spelt wrong. Undoubtedly, the fact that someone could make such a 'heinous' mistake was probably the reason why Arthur was so flustered.

The first indication that this was not the normal everyday routine as Merlin had expected was a strange paragraph referencing to Merlin's '_honger that was unquienchible by anyfing other than Arther's sweet juices'_.

"Honger?" The warlock said aloud, surprised to find that the answer was given by his rumbling stomach. The references to 'sweet juices' momentarily confused him, but he dismissed it as a mistake. Odd how some people thought that Arthur fetched his own food and drink; conveniently, he had a servant to fulfil that particular task. No, the author had clearly made some sort of error.

A few paragraphs later and Merlin began to realise that he had been the one who had made a mistake. Such lines as 'large juicy cock' followed by the occasional '**(OMG dunt u fink dat is soooo sexahh!)' **kept jumping out at him and he shuddered feeling both repulsion and fascination course through him. Whoever had written this clearly didn't know either of the two men they had written about.

In actual fact, Merlin was certain that he had never been so horrified or embarrassed before in his life! What on earth did they mean by '_Merlin touched himself excitidly whilst Arther wanked off in da corener' ._ Actually, now he thought about it, Merlin became certain that he didn't want to know what was meant. Judging by what he had managed to read so far, Merlin was fairly confident that it would only serve to embarrass him further. In fact, the best thing for him to do would be to shut the thing down and forget about it, to act like it had never happened. If only he would learn to listen to himself.

The rest of the story, for that was what it was, a foul concoction of lies and atrocities, was read in a stunned sort-of silence. Whoever had written this was clearly disturbed! What sort of person would chronicle their lives in such a horrific –

A sudden, hideous thought hit him then and he gulped. What if Arthur returned to see _this _and Merlin? He might jump to the entirely incorrect conclusion that Merlin had written it and then purposely left it for him to see! An even worse notion entered his brain then and he shivered; what if Arthur had written it to show Merlin what he wanted him to do? _No_, the rational side of Merlin's brain replied. _He wouldn't... would he? _

But how could Merlin be sure?

"No," Merlin repeated aloud in an effort to convince himself that his master was not to blame. "This is an act of dark magic and I must destroy it!"

With that said, Merlin began to go about the task.


	15. Chapter 15: Letter of One who is Trapped

**AN: Sorry, sorry, sorry! This update is about as on time as a British train. My only excuses are that I have been very busy with coursework, revision and writing an original novel :D.**

**As promised, Merlin's letter to Arthur though it's a bit different to what I first intended.**

**Reviews are love and whoever leaves one shall be worshipped :D**

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_Arthur,_

_I'm writing this with your letter in my hand. It's centuries old now and the parchment is cracked and peeling. Older than the trees it is, yet I am older still. _

_Time passes oddly now. There are no thorns for me, no flying; it lurches forward, and I am trapped behind it. Time alters everything, it seems, except me. Of course, it used to. Back when you walked the earth, I never stopped changing because I never stopped seeking it. I grew older, wiser, more powerful and yet with knowledge came doubt, with age came fear and with power came loss. I could not save you, could not banish death back to grave from which it sprang. I could not save you, Arthur, and it hurt. Then the envy began._

_I have walked the earth for hundreds of years and yet my time has not come. I envy you that. I envy your soul and the peace it has found whilst it escapes from the bitter entrails of the past. There is talk of your resurrection but I know you would not want that. Your time had come, you said on our final meeting, and you were glad. You only wished that I had stayed by your side._

_You think I left because of Gwen but what woman could have strained our friendship so? No, my prince, I left because I had little choice. I was stopping you, discrediting you, making you weak and foolish like myself; how easy it was to solve your problems, to grant your wishes, to tear down your enemies... I did everything I could to help you and more but it was not sustainable. Bargains had to be made and I was squandering lives._

_You are no stranger to death, my king, and yet I wonder if you can possibly understand how it feels to hold the life of another and destroy it? To fell whole armies with a wave of your hand? I could not live like that, Arthur. It was destroying me._

_Nimueh knew it. She played my weaknesses against me and by my own treachery, I was undone, falling into legend just as you had. Even now, they believe me to be trapped but I am not trapped, at least not in the sense they deem. My prison is vaster than any cave, more frightening than any stone because my prison is the world. I cannot leave it; it will not let me no matter how hard I try. _

_And so I am a myth. An old man, crooked and bent, your advisor and your lover and all these other roles they have cast on me. All the other people they have replaced. Time remembers us, brother, but it remembers us wrong. _

_Perhaps they are correct though. I look not a day over twenty but I feel old, feel weak. My bones beneath me are brittle and my conscience is weighty. There is nothing that can ease the burden for the damage has been done and I have been scarred. I cannot escape it. _

_For that, I envy you as well. _

_The last lines of your letter make me smile, though there is sadness too. It is consuming and yet at the same time, too great to express. How was it that two people who had detested each other with passion had become such strong friends? We had a fellowship, you and I, one that was strong and unbreakable. It had shattered. _

_After writing this letter, I will burn it. The paper will burn, crackle, cease to exist but the words will not. They will float up into the heavens with the smoke and then you shall receive them. You shall know..._

_As for your request, I shall grant it. I _have _granted it every day of my life. I remember._

_Merlin _

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**Review? :)**


	16. Chapter 16: Two Loving One

**AN: Long time no update, but this is a beast of a chapter to make up for it. It's somewhat rambling though, and does contain an OC servant who will probably be featured in a later fic. **

**Don't think this is my best fic but with all the revision etc, not really had time to polish it off as well as I would have liked. **

**Reviews are love. Actually, more than love. Reviews are heaven ;)**

**IMPORTANT NOTE: Contains reference to Arthur loving Merlin but no graphic details etc. **

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Camelot is alive today. The halls are aflutter, the greying tapestries reminiscent of Uther's reign being torn down and replaced by flowers. Everywhere, the evidence of a momentous occasion is thrust into the faces of the city's inhabitants and yet none mind for such a celebration has not been seen in Camelot for many years. The whole of Albion is excited - that is, the whole of Albion except from the two people about to be wed in holy matrimony.

It's not that they don't love each other, Gwen thinks as she stares back at her reflection in the golden framed mirror. In fact, Gwen's certain that Arthur's one of the people she loves most in the world. The problem is, he is not _the _one, because _the_ one is gone, gone far away and he is never coming back.

The person in the mirror knows that too. A single tear drips down her face and Gwen hastily wipes it away before her maid-servant sees. Too late. The girl is looking at her with large doe eyes, wide and innocent looking, alight with compassion that Guinevere is not used to seeing; Gwen feels ashamed. Who is she, the humble blacksmith's daughter, to cry when the dream of a hundred thousand girls are coming true? And for her? For paupers, marrying princes is the stuff of imaginings and Gwen can still barely begin to contemplate how her fortunes have changed. Still, a thousand princes could not make up for the way every passing second wrenches her heart from her chest.

Another tear escapes from her dark brown orbs as Adelaide comes up beside her with a handkerchief, pale blue silk with fringing at the edge.

"Here, miss," the girl says with a small, concerned smile. "Don't be shedding no more tears now. You're marrying Arthur and he'll treat you nice and proper. Man of our dreams, 'e is. What I wouldn't do to be swappin' place with you today! Lovely couple, you'll make. A right treat, me mam' says. Our King 'un his queen." The girl is babbling and she seems to know it. Above her face in the mirror, Adelaide's is white, the tell-tale dark circles underneath her eyes not the only indicators of how little sleep she has been getting. Gwen understands, for she used to get those circles too back when she was servant to Morgana.

Gwen sniffs and dabs at her face in an effort to wipe the trails away. Those days seem so long ago now, almost as if they belong to another life. Perhaps it was. Who would have thought that Gwen the blacksmith's daughter would have gone on to become Queen Guinevere of Camelot? Certainly not Gwen herself.

Fresh tears begin to fall as she remembers the old times, the times of happiness when she had found contentment in people instead of objects. There is none of that now, for all of the old order is gone; the people most important to her in the world have flown the nest, Gaius is dead and Arthur and Gwen are just two people who can't understand how to go about letting go.

"Please, miss!" Adelaide sounds desperate. "Don't cry! You'll be spoiling that pretty face of yours. Please, stop! The King u'll think I done somemit' wrong!"

Composure is hard to find, but eventually the tears are gone and a strained smile has returned. Adelaide begins to comb Gwen's hair, her features falling into their natural smile. It, Gwen supposes, is what first attracted her to the unusually pretty seventeen year old, and yet sometimes, Gwen knows differently. There was something about the wild accent, the light in the eyes, the doll-like features and the fiery spirit that had reminded Gwen of someone she had once known. Her name had been Morgana and she had been Arthur's first love.

Gwen knew it had been hard for Arthur when the Lady Morgana had left. He had begged and begged and begged her to stay but she would not. One night, she had slipped out like a shadow, ghostly and equally as frightening and within a week, a letter had come saying that she was married and did not want to see the prince again. It had broken Arthur's heart, but Gwen suspects that Morgana's had been shattered long before that.

It hadn't been Arthur's fault, Gwen knows, because you can't help who you fall in love with. Morgana had been his first love, yes, but Gwen knows better than most that people are able to love more than one person at the same time. In fact, she whole-heartedly believes that it is easier to love several people than to love just one. Unfortunately for Arthur, Morgana had not had that level of understanding; having half of Arthur's love had not been enough for her and so she had gone. Soon after that, Merlin had left too.

Merlin. His name resounds around Gwen's head, once, twice, burying deep into the tissues of her brain like a shard of glass. It hurts to think of that boyish grin, the cheeky demeanour, the way he had held her hand and comforted her when she was sad... Yes, Gwen can understand why Arthur loves Merlin, because she had loved him too. Still does.

"Adelaide," she whispers in a desperate effort to wrench her mind away from the misery threatening to engulf her. "Talk to me, Adelaide. Please talk to me."

The girl's eyes are searching but she complies, starting off a great story about her brother George. Besides a few words at the start, Gwen barely listens for the thoughts of Merlin have returned and they're swamping her mind.

How could he have left?

She pictures him now in the days before he went; still beautiful but with a great sadness in his eyes that never faded, never changed. Arthur had noticed it and Gwen had noticed it and nothing they could do could remove it. The blue was no longer bright but dull, almost as if it was mirroring the dull aching of Gwen's heart.

He had tried to explain it to her though; Gwen could not fault him for leaving without a word because he had left her with many. At the time, she had not realised the significance of that conversation underneath the willow tree, but later, much later when the dust had settled and Arthur had proposed, Gwen had understood.

"I'm getting in the way of your destiny," he had said, and in an effort to right that, he had left.

There had been five stages to Arthur's grief. First, there had been denial, the belief that Merlin was going to walk back through the door and everything would be okay again. Then, there had been anger, cold, raw anger that stung like a blade and travelled through the castle like the plague. Gwen had been more terrified of him then than she had ever felt before back when he was a slave to Uther. Next, there had been the bargaining, the begging for him to come back and make right the world that suddenly seemed so wrong. That stage had not lasted long, soon being replaced by sadness so deep that Gwen had thought Arthur would never be able to pull himself out of it. Lastly, he had experienced numbness and from there it had reached a plateau; Arthur was stuck in the miserable confines of numbness, unable to experience the sixth and final stage that Gwen herself had only recently been through. Arthur cannot find the acceptance so looks for other things to replace the pain with.

One such thing is her.

" – Mam' were furious! He's a good lad, our George, but he don't half make a fool of 'imself sometimes."

As Adelaide trails off, Gwen becomes aware that she is obliged to say something.

A feeble, "Oh. That sounds nice," escapes her lips and she inwardly cringes before sighing. "I'm sorry, Adelaide. I have a lot on my mind."

There were a few seconds of silence before the servant girl spoke again,

"It's that boy, ain't it?"

"Boy?" Gwen is momentarily shocked and she hastily rearranges her facial features into a neutral expression. "What boy?"

"That one who used to go 'bout with the King. Your friend."

"How do you know that?" Gwen is immediately on the defensive, her hackles raised.

"Seen 'im, I have. Back when we was street beggars 'nd that. 'E gave me money once, 'e did." She pauses suddenly and Gwen can almost see the battle raging within her. "'nd sometimes, milady, sometimes at night, you say things, you do. In your sleep. Say 'is name, you do. Ask 'im to come back..."

Adelaide looks at her oddly and Gwen realises that she's muttering under her breath. _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it, don't say it... _She repeats the words over and over again until at last, she regains the control over her mouth which is oddly dry. Adelaide is still looking at her strangely, her long fingers caressing the smooth jewels inlaid in the comb.

Absentmindedly, Guinevere wipes sweaty palms on the silken fabric of her wedding dress. It's too grand for her, too beautiful, the colour of ivory with a long train and fitted bodice. It feels like water on her skin and under different circumstances, she might have loved it. Now, it just feels like a trap, a dark cage from which there is no escape.

"You don't 'ave to marry 'im, milady, if it ain't what you want." Adelaide's voice, though quiet, is loud in the chamber, full of gentle concern and yet it makes her mistress angry.

"It is precisely what I want," Gwen snaps, snatching the comb from the girl and pulling it through her hair. It wrenches the roots and Gwen feels fresh tears spring to her eyes.

"Beggin' yer pardon, miss. I'm speakin' above me station." Silence. In the looking glass, Gwen can see the young woman fighting to stay silent and she smiles, for what seems like the first time in days. _Just like Morgana, _she thinks. _Never able to stay silent._

"Speak, Adelaide, but keep it brief. It is but minutes till the wedding and my hair is still not done."

"I'll do it now, miss." A pause as the comb was handed back to the servant who immediately ran it through her mistress' long, black tresses. "You know I don't mean no harm, don't you miss? You know I ain't never going to betray you? You 'elped us get off the street, you did. Gave us a house 'nd all that. Gave us a job. We was just street rats before. Had nothin', was nothin', just petty criminals. Got a good heart, you have, letting me be your maid 'n' all that. Could of had a noble lady, you could of." Gwen smiled encouragingly as the girl petered off, unsure of where the little speech was going. "You saved us, miss. People talk they, do. Say nasty things and all that, but we don't, not at all. Grateful to you, we are. And to his highness. Don't want neither of you to be un'appy. Should follow your dreams, me mam' says. Are you followin' your dreams, miss? Marryin' the king 'un all that?"

"I have a dream some times," Gwen interrupts, her voice unusually calm and dreamy. She hasn't spoken like this in months and she misses it. Where has that childish innocence gone, the ability to dream of something other than despair? "I am in the church and outside, the night sky is raining. There are lots of guests; nobles and courtiers, and friends... They are all wearing white and there is ribbons in their hair. Morgana is there but she is angry, ashen faced, her fists balled by her side and it's then that I realise that I am marrying Arthur. My gown is black, torn, too tight, too uncomfortable and I feel like I am about to faint. We start to say our vows but we are crying. Sad. The guests, they're crying to, but through happiness. They don't understand that this isn't what we want."

There was a pause and she looked at Adelaide with fervour in her eyes. Outside, the rain was a silken drape, battering the castle like canon fire. Gwen is sure that it is equally as explosive as she continues speaking.

"Suddenly, the door swings open and in the rain, a shadow stands. It strides into the church, tall, gangly limbed, boyish still... And then it speaks." A pause and Gwen becomes breathless, unsure that she's willing to share this part. The green eyes are looking at her expectantly, the emotion within them veiled. Gwen wishes she could do that. "_He_ speaks, Adelaide. He says 'Stop. Be with me instead,' and my heart leaps up in my chest and I want to scream, because when I look at him, he is not looking at me. _Merlin_ is not looking at me! He is looking at Arthur and Arthur is looking at him and then they are gone into the night and I am by myself."

She finishes her story and then there's silence in the chamber. It smothers like a blanket, hot, confusing, too clinging to be free off. Adelaide is looking at her mistress with a blank expression and Gwen wonders how much of what she said made sense.

"Do you see what I mean, Adelaide? Do you see? If Merlin returned, it would not be for me. It would never be for me. The only reason Merlin would return is for Arthur."

A sad silence settles on the room.

"Even so, milady, dun't mean you has to marry the king. Not if you dun't want to. Not if it's gonna make you sad. We could run away, you and me. Into the hills and that."

For a moment, Gwen allows herself to picture the escape, the wondrous feeling of being free, of being _alive_. Then, the illusion fades, the bright colours in her mind fade to greys and reality hits her like an arrow.

"I will do my duty. I will marry Arthur."

For what else is there to do? She could run, but not fast enough. She could hide but she would always be found. No, better to stay with the one person who understands what she is going through even if she knows that she'll never be happy. Arthur needs her now.

Gwen knows that better than anyone.

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**AN: Review? Pretty please? :D**


	17. Chapter 17: The Earth's Children

**AN: Another long chapter. I quite like this one though the execution is a wee bit shabby. **

**Kudos and cookies to anyone who can successfully work out which weather goes with which character :D**

**Thanks to the wonderful Aurore Verlaine, Andine and myrmidryad for reviewing :D All reviews make my day and it's my goal to reach 100 before June :D**

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Earth is cold. She sits, watches with eyes so old that they are bottomless. Surveys her children one by one, feeling love, feeling hatred, just watching as they go about their daily lives. Some, she has come to realise, are heroes, the greatest of the Great. Others are the villains, their midnight wanderings far from the life she would have desired for them. The rest are simply normal people following normal lives, her humble flock that regard her with fear and wonder and awe. They marvel at her ability to withstand time, not understanding that she is time itself. She is what makes the seconds pass, the minutes tick, the hours crawl by... She is life. She is also death.

A group of people capture her attention and she stares, transfixed. They are a motley bunch, some of the elite in her society, rich, noble and extraordinarily talented. Friends. That is what her children call it but Earth knows better. She has not their naivety nor their compassion and she recognises them for what they truly are. Their destinies are entwined. She should know. She is the one that has made them that way.

The first is beautiful, skin so fair, eyes so blue with dark curls and beautiful flowing gowns. A lady. The Earth feels pride when it looks at such a fine specimen, for what else could have claim to such raw beauty? Such blazing spirit? Who else had captured the fire of the volcano and put it inside such a shell? Who else could have?

And yet, Earth muses, perhaps she was incorrect to do so, for the child had been designed to be like the snow; soft, beautiful, delicate and cold. Oh so cold. Oh so dangerous. Coldness is her strength, her inner core and it saps at those around her. That is what gives her strength. That is what makes her formidable. That is what promises to cause such fun and games later.

Fun and games. For what are her children for if not to play with? Pawns, each one of them. There are no knights, no kings, for she is queen of all and she will have obedience. They have no choice. She plays with their lives like toys; each is replaceable. Some day, she will take pleasure in breaking them.

But not yet for this one, she decides, as her gaze falls upon a man. Handsome, she thinks, with tanned skin and dark eyes, but ultimately foolish. He is apart from the others, through class and status and also by 'choice'. Her choice. She was the voice in his head that had told him to leave. She is the voice that is keeping him from rejoining them. Not yet, she tells him, not until their king is dead and rotten in his grave. Then, she thinks, we can have our fun. Then, you can be the hail, the pain-causer, the stone that starts the ripples. Great things will come of you, peasant boy, things that you can't even begin to imagine and then there will be no title bestowed on you that you do not deserve.

In the main group, she sees another man. His time is approaching fast and she is looking forward to devouring him. Her mouth will open wide and swallow, swallow, swallow! He will be gone and they will be broken. Of course, she could fix them if she wanted to. She won't, for what would be the point? Her children, she has learnt, have a habit of breaking themselves despite her interference. So why interfere, she thinks, and so she doesn't. They can take their potions, take their pills, but without her, they will never be healed. She will not let them be healed for she is the one true healer. The rest take what she deigns to give. Doesn't matter. They're still damned.

The man coughs and she feels elated. It is soon then, so very soon! Her disease is taking shape, her destruction plunging forward even as they slumber. She envies them that, her children, for she can never sleep. She can never shut her eyes nor turn away. She is forced to watch them forever, her eternal punishment for their creation, as they hurt each other, kill one another, wound even her, their mother! This one is no different with his so-called cures and poisonous methods. He is a betrayer, is he not? Weak, fearful, old... The clouds ruining what little light she permits them to have. He provides neither light nor darkness and there is no room on her world for someone like that.

Also in her vision is another woman. A serving girl, conceived by Earth and given to a blacksmith to raise. Left alone now. Earth has retaken them, stolen them from her, the girl thinks and yet still she is the sun, the brightness, the cheerfulness. How long for? Light can be diminished, hope snuffed out, and then what will she be? Shadows like the rest of them? Bitter and old, her innocence gone, her youth destroyed? Earth will take pleasure in breaking her as only Earth can. She will beg for death before the end and only when she is lost in the swamp of sorrow will Earth strike. Cruel, she realises, but fun.

The girl looks down at the Earth, almost as if she can hear her sire's thoughts. Perhaps she can. Perhaps, Earth thinks slyly, the girl has more intuition that she desired. No matter. Plans can be changed, destines rewritten. Yes, yes, yes! It's all coming together now. The servant who somehow falls into being a queen, loving the rain, loving the mist, loving the hail or perhaps loving none of them at all. Earth feels oddly excited at the prospect of what havoc she shall reap.

A storm brews now, dark and worrisome, the oppressive clouds chasing away the promise of light on the horizon. It is brutal, its reign tyrannical. Much, Earth thinks, like the mortal who claims ownership over her. She is just land to him, a method of earning money, of controlling those whom he claims lordship over. His protection, he says, comes at a price, but Earth does not need it. Earth does not want it. She will look forward to showing him that when the time comes. When he takes his last breath, she will smile and whisper it to him, and then he will die knowing what awaits him. What has already befallen his wife. His corpse will become bones, his bones become dust and then he will become part of her again. She is closer than he thinks.

As is the fire. It scorches and it blisters, it maims and it kills. It knows not mercy and it knows not fear, much like the one who will wield it. Barely a child he is, and yet Earth knows his story is written in the stars along with that of the others. The boy, soon to become the man-killer, the murderer of a king. She watches him grow, repulsed and yet fascinated by the way his mind changes, the way it warps in on itself until all that innocence of childhood that Earth worked so hard to instil in his mind is leeched from him. He's frightening, even to her whom he cannot touch no matter how much destruction he causes. Earth realises with a shudder of her branches that she fears him. What he will become. What he will do. With every breath, his power grows. Soon, he will be even more powerful than _her_.

_Her_. Earth thinks of that child with bitterness so wide, it could swallow her whole. So much promise, so much power. So much opportunity and yet she had turned away from Earth's chosen path. And for what? Broken tears in the world's chasms, staring pathetically at reflections in the surface of water. Love. If Earth were a human, she would scoff at it. What is love with its boundaries untold, save for a catalyst for despair? For a few, brief moments, there is completeness but it all fades in the end.

That is why this child is the frost. She waxes and wanes, powerful one minute, pitiful the next as she hatches scheme after scheme in an attempt for revenge. In an attempt to cure what cannot be undone. Earth watches her fail with interest that soon turns to boredom. Yes. Just like the frost and the way it creeps, creeps, creeps, until it has reached its goal, only to be chased away by the first sign of heat. Then, it recoils. Runs. Gone until the next winter, its beauty and its power momentarily forgotten. It always comes back but Earth knows she can stop it. There is no forever for anyone but her.

And him, she realises with what could be seen as satisfaction. Just him and her, and her and him, two beings that fate would keep apart until the very ending of the world for he is the mist, concealing himself expertly from everything around him. So many secrets his soul does hold, secrets that not even Earth can truly understand. There is a great power that hangs about those blue eyes, the colour of water. The colour of the rivers. The colour of the seas. The colour of the oceans. The colour of tears.

Oh yes, he will shed tears for it is not in his destiny to be happy. It is but one of the things that he must sacrifice if he wishes for his friends to have long and prosperous lives. Then again, it is not up to him how the others live. He must do _her_ bidding and then she will grant him what he desires. Then, _she _shall trap him and Earth will not do anything about it for it is what she wishes for too. For him to be near her, inside of her, so that she may smother the life out of him bit by bit, a drop a year. He alone had been designed to be special, to emerge from the wraith-like clouds battered and bruised but not broken. Not broken... Disappointing, Earth thinks, for all heroes have to meet their end valiantly and this man is certainly a hero.

But what about the last? He cannot be a hero nor can he be a villain for he displays the qualities of both, and yet it is not possible for him to be ordinary. A category of his own, maybe, the haunted soul, the child of the king... The human. Yes, that's what he is, more so than any of the others. Weak and foolish, and proud and vain, yet brave and compassionate, good-natured and wise. He is the very rain that falls from the clouds, so sad and yet strong, the shadow of the storm that brings hatred but also life.

The two men begin to converse and Earth is coldly amused. Prince and servant? Should it not be the other way round? Why, pray, should the one with power be subjected to cleaning the mortal's boots? No, they shall be equals by the end, friends even. Earth will take pleasure in tearing them apart. Tearing the whole group apart.

For now, she continues to watch them with interest for she is their sire and they are her children. She feels old. Feels tired. Feels cold. Feels ready... She will reclaim one of them soon.

Earth is cold. She sits and watches.


	18. Chapter 18: Meetings at Midnight

**AN: Rather a long fic this time, but I quite enjoyed writing it :). It's fluff (I think), a nice change from all the angst I've been pouring out recently. :) Hope people like it. I've got more fluff on the way as well but I'm not sure if I should post it next or use to seperate some angsty stuff. Any thoughts?**

**Pairing for this fic is Morgana x Arthur. **

**Reviews: Well, what can I say really. Love them. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I need to start doing names again tbh but I keep losing track :o. **

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It was midnight when Morgana slipped out of her chamber, or at least she thought it was. The pearly glow of the moon caressed her skin and sent long, spidery shadows sprawling across the floor at odd angles where it slipped through the corridor's windows. Her footsteps, graceful as they were, bounced off the cold, harsh stone and echoed in the corridor about her and she found herself wishing that she had come barefoot.

A quick pause and her feet were bare, the azure slippers stashed safely behind the bust of someone who had once been important. Morgana was not sure who; they were forgotten now in Camelot. So much had been forgotten. She often wondered if she was the only one who remembered it, but of course, that was silly because she had been just a child at the time seeing everything through childish eyes.

Just a child...

Those days hadn't lasted long. Her mother had died, followed to the grave by her father – her sweet, loving father – and Morgana had been brought here, to this place where she had been given the finest clothes in the kingdom and servants upon servants.

Despite her grief, her eight year old self had been delighted by the hordes of people at her beck and call. She'd had servants before of course, but never so many and never ones who had treated her with so much respect. She'd felt important and she'd felt beautiful and for a while, she had been content until she realised that the one thing her life lacked was love. And wasn't love the most important thing of all?

A sudden noise in the corridor ahead jarred her from her thoughts and she leapt into the shadowy safety of an alcove. Rowdy voices drifted to her ears, accompanied by the stale smell of ale and urine. They were lucky, she thought, that Uther was long in bed, else they would not have lived to touch another drop of the foul substance that twisted and corrupted the minds of even the most noble of gents. Ale to Morgana was like the venom that swirled in the vials that Gaius held in such high esteem. Men and their poisons. They would never learn.

She felt rather than saw the soldiers pass from her hiding place. The stench grew suddenly stronger as the air was disturbed and Morgana resisted the urge to vomit. How they could allow themselves to become so putrid was beyond her, yet perhaps it suited them; they were rotten and their scent was rotten and both made for repulsive meetings.

Finally, Morgana was certain that they had passed and with a sigh of relief, she stepped out of the shadows and towards the door that would lead her on to the castle's roof. It was heavier than most of the doors in Camelot, hidden by a tapestry so old and faded that Morgana was surprised that Uther hadn't replaced it.

She pushed it aside, coughing at the shower of dust that sprang from the rough fabric. Surprise gripped her throat; had it really been that long since she had made the journey to her turret? The door was rusty on its hinges and emitted a loud, low groan. Morgana stiffened briefly hearing sudden footsteps, but then common sense gripped her and she sprang into action slipping behind the door and pushing it shut with a hefty shove.

It was dark in the stairway and she wished that she'd thought to grab a candle. The air was musty, heavy with the scent of oldness and history that managed to be both familiar and strange, yet it was a comforting smell reminding her of days spent out in the woods with Arthur or her father. Both seemed so far away now.

Graceful fingers ran over the dust covered stone as she advanced up the stairway in a trance. It was so long since she'd been here, going up _her _staircase up to _her _roof. No one else went there, that much was certain. She doubted that many others even knew of it. After all, Morgana herself had only found it whilst looking for an impromptu hiding place whilst playing hide and seek one day with Arthur. Her ten year old self had been fascinated by the long, winding staircase with the uneven steps and blanket of dust that held with in it so many stories of people long passed; she'd been here so many times since that the layout was engraved in her mind and she no longer worried about being discovered.

At last, she reached the turret's top, flinging open the tower door and inhaling deeply. The night air hit her square in the face and she grinned, delighted that the place still held the charm for her that it had since her youth. So many nights had been spent up here, shedding tears, singing softly, making wishes and inventing worlds. She breathed in deeply before pursing her lips and walking over to the edge of the battlements. Long fingers caressed the pale stone and she smiled again as her eyes danced in the moonlight.

Above her, the charcoal sky was alight with diamonds, glittering silver orbs that hung suspended in the air along with every wish that had ever been made on them. Hers were up there to, somewhere in the black chasm that matched the void in her heart; wishes that had been made but never granted, instead becoming lost in the bands of silver and black.

A soft wind blew over the battlements and lifted dark curls off Morgana's face. Below her, Camelot's streets were bathed in darkness, the silence restless. Morgana surveyed them with interest, noting the thatched roofs, the slanted chimneys, the strange blobs that were indistinguishable from this high up. Life was so different for Uther's people and often, she had wondered whether life as a pauper would have been easier.

A gust of night air disturbed her from her thoughts and her lips curled upwards. Everything about the night seemed so beautiful and fresh as if she was seeing it with new eyes. Perhaps she was. Recently, she had been blinded by her hate and grief, seeing only fear and bitterness everywhere she had looked. In the end, love had won through but it had been a closely fought battle.

But had she been right, she wondered, to save Uther? She had held his life in her hands, and in the end, she had protected it when perhaps she should not have. Maybe by saving him, she had condemned several others to death. Maybe –

No, it was wrong to speculate like this. When she had looked at him that day at her father's grave, when she had seen the regret and sorrow in his eyes, when he had made those promises, the harsh facade had been stripped away and she had seen the other side of Uther Pendragon; the softer side, the side that he kept hidden from everyone around him. Forgiveness had been easy then.

A sudden cough in the darkness made her whirl round, blue eyes wide.

"Who's there?"she hissed. "Show yourself!"

A figure emerged from the shadows, his blond hair bathed in the same silver glow that touched everything in its reach. A pair of blue eyes looked up and met hers and without realising it, she exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

"Arthur." His name tasted sweet in her mouth and she found herself smiling again. What was with her tonight? Her emotions were oddly uncontrollable, as if the lock and chain that were normally present had found the key.

"What are you doing here, Morgana?" His voice was almost a whisper in the darkness and she had to strain to hear it.

"Couldn't sleep. How about you?"

"Couldn't sleep."

They smiled at each other; his was a proper smile, Morgana noted, without any sign of the anger or tenseness that had lined his face so recently. The expression took years off him, and once again Morgana saw the twenty-one year old prince; she had become too used to the thirty year old man.

"Still," she began. "It's rude to follow a lady without telling her of one's intentions."

"Follow?" The prince looked genuinely baffled.

"Up here. Why else would you be here?"

"I've been coming here for years, Morgana. Ever since I was a boy."

Now it was her turn to look baffled.

"Ever since you – Years? How can you have been coming here for years? I've been coming here since I was eight and the place has never changed! Not once. Never any sign of a footprint. Never any –"

"The dust settles as quickly as it stirs, Morgana."

"Yes, but even so! How come I have never seen you? I used to come here every night when I first discovered it! Every night, Arthur! It was just me and the sky for everyone of them!"

"It's my special place, Morgana," he said by way of explanation. She looked at him blankly and he re-phrased. "I would only come here when I could slip away undetected. It was my place and I didn't want anyone else to know about it, especially not my father. I feared what he would do if he knew; seal up the door maybe – don't look so shocked, he's done that before – or utilise it for his own use, and then it would be gone. My own, small little place of paradise. Gone. I couldn't bear that, Morgana. To have someone else invade it would be –"

He stopped suddenly as if he had become aware of just what it was that he was saying.

"Have I invaded it?" Morgana's face was deadly serious, pale in the silver light and unquestionably beautiful. Arthur studied her for several seconds realising that the only thing she had invaded was his heart. He shook his head sadly.

"This place is as much yours as it is mine." A pause and then, "It's nice to share it though. The stars are beautiful but they're not much company."

The Lady Morgana smiled serenely at the stars that twinkled in disgruntlement at being denounced. Arthur noticed to and he laughed. The sound was carried on the wind that licked at their skin. Morgana shivered. The air in her chambers had been too heavy, too oppressive for her to even consider bringing a cloak of sorts. All she had was the flimsy gold material of her night gown which was not match for the wind's bitter bite.

"You're cold." It was a statement rather than a question and Morgana shrugged. Yes she was, but she wasn't about to admit it.

"I'm fine."

Arthur raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Then why are your teeth chattering?"

Were they? Morgana brought a hand up to her mouth, surprised to find that Arthur was right. He smirked, smugness radiating from him and she scowled. Then, an impish grin lit up her face as she took in the way that he was chaffing at his arms.

"Cold?"

He looked suddenly sheepish and she laughed, a tinkling of bells. Arthur thought he'd never seen anything as beautiful as she was out on that turret top. He found himself moving closer towards her and the desire to grasp at pale flesh was overwhelming.

Similar thoughts played on the mind of the Lady Morgana and she longed to reach up so that their lips would touch.

Still, how could they when neither knew of the other's desires? Arthur was filled with shame at the rejection he was bound to experience, the harsh word 'no' reverberating inside his head. Morgana, on the other hand, was full of feelings of inadequacy; he was a prince and she was just the king's ward. She had her title, yes, but was it enough? The answer came to her in Uther's voice. No.

Still, there was no reason why she shouldn't put her arms around him as they often had as children, even if it would only make her tormented heart ache all the more. He responded instantly, taking her in his arms and stroking her hair. She looked up at him, full of admiration and respect and for a moment, she was certain that he was going to kiss her.

Then, somewhere below, a door banged and they sprang apart. When Morgana looked at Arthur again, that feeling was gone and she was left to drink a draught of disappointment. His eyes would not meet hers and she felt her face fall.

"We best be going," he said eventually. "It'll be light soon and then they'll come looking for us. Best to keep it our place for a little bit longer, don't you think?"

She nodded, mute. Our place sounded good.

She watched him vanish through the wooden doorway, listened to the sound of his footsteps until there was nothing left to listen to, and then turned back to the stars. They glittered nonchalantly, unabashed by all that had taken place that night. Morgana smiled to herself but it was strained. There was one more wish she had for them; the wish that love would blossom on the turret top under the stars themselves.

Floors below, at an open window, the heir to the kingdom of Albion found himself wishing for the exact same thing.


	19. Chapter 19: Uther Wonders

**AN: A new chapter (:. Haha, I apologise about how long it's taken to be put up. My only excuse is that I've been very busy with exams and such, and I;ve started work on my own novel as well which is stealing most of my time :/. **

**Anyway, this is short but sweet and somewhat rambling as it was composed in about fifteen minutes and I cba to go back and check over it and make sure it's all correct. Which is bad, I know, but... well... okay, no excuses. It was meant to be fluff but as you can see, it is most definitely angst. I'll try for some fluff next time though I knid of suck at writing it :)**

**Review? Pretty please? Cookies for all that do? ;)**

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Uther wonders.

His thoughts are captured by many things, good and bad. Thoughts of the sun and of the stars, thoughts of the moon that waxes and wanes and his life that changes with it. The darkness matches him in a way, matches his soul; striving to be good, longing to find the light but unable to get there until it's too late. Evil and good, it's all the same to Uther Pendragon.

But what is he, he wonders? A white hat or a black one? He's done bad things, yes, but only ever to keep the peace. Only to do what a king must, to protect that which he loves more than life itself from what he fears most in the world. Only to protect Arthur.

Arthur, his son. He's watched him blossom from a boy into a man, seen the conflict rage in his eyes as he's strove again and again in a desperate attempt to make the right decision. To do the right thing, whatever the right thing is. To make a difference and bring laughter to the faces of those who had no right to be smiling.

Uther's watched him win. He's also watched him fail.

Arthur's better than Uther though. At least Arthur tries. He doesn't cover the pillows at night with the bitter longings of an old man, wretched and broken. Tears won't win Uther's wars, and yet he sheds them anyway. He could have filled wells with his grief; over time, wells have turned to rivers.

The door to his room is thrown open and in struts Morgana, her porcelain face livid. Anger radiates from her like the smell of honey, powerful and overwhelming and sickly all in one. Uther longs to be rid of it. To be rid of everything but the sleep, the everlasting sleep from which there is no release. Where there is just silence upon silence and not even the memories can hurt him.

Uther's not foolish enough to believe in heaven. The peasants have their God and Uther has his reason. Besides, if there is a heaven, Uther is not foolish enough to think he shall get there. He's done too many bad things, taken too many lives and what for? To save his people? To save Arthur? To save himself?

Himself.

The one thing he can never save but always tries to.

Time is running out for him. He feels it know in the way his bones creak, the way they grind against each other as he rises. The way he can't meet Morgana's fierce expression, nor bring grey eyes up to her face. He longs to and yet he is afraid for her power far exceeds his own. Time has passed and much of his strength has been sapped by a land that does not even realise that it's killing its master.

The people, they talk of slavery. Of how wrong it is, how false, and yet they do not realise that the king is a slave to his country. A slave to his people. How he is bound by lock and chain to the one thing he wishes more than ever to get away from. To retire from life with his grief had been too much to ask.

It still is.

In front of him, Morgana stamps her foot, her azure gown shimmering in the cold light that streams through his window. The sun should burn but it feels icy. It is icy. It's wrong, as if all of Uther's world has been distorted, like a mirror that has been warped and broken by the sun. Morgana too, is false. Since when had the little girl with a deep blue eyes turned into a woman of such malice and hatred that Uther feared her. Feared who she could become, feared what she might do. What she has already done. Who she has already become. Uther can't stop change.

Uther can't change anything.

"… wrong!" Morgana is saying, her face flushing crimson. "The people need water, my lord, and if your son can't see past his own mistakes than…"

"Than what?" Uther snaps, but his voice is weary. Weak. It surprises him, and even Morgana looks a little shocked. "What would you have me do, Morgana? Order the execution of my own son? Tell him what a bad man he is – me!? Ask him to do what I have not? No, Morgana, you push too far! Save your words for Arthur! I have little use of them now the sun is turning to ash."

A pause. Silence. Uther wonders for a moment if this is a dream or if it is death. No, he reasons. His pulse beats beneath his skin, weak that it is, and his lungs gasp for air. Shouldn't death be so much sweeter? More of a release?

This, if it were death, would be hell.

"I'll trouble you no longer, my Lord." Morgana's voice is strained but there's compassion in her eyes, a shared weariness that eases the feeling in Uther's stomach. He's not sure what it is. Guilt maybe, or perhaps fear?

The unexpected is dark.

The king of Camelot turns back to the window and watches in sun set in the west with nonchalance. What is it to him, whether the sun rises or falls? The sun does nothing to light Uther's way, nor give him strength; the whole world is bathed in darkness.

The whole world is wrong.

The sun's nearly gone now; disappeared, just like her until he's only got the memories to cling to. His Igraine. His love. Love. A four letter word that can convey so much and then so little. That can fill someone with wonder and beauty, and then in the blink of an eye, take it all away again. Steal it, put it back on the shelf from where it came so that it gathers dust, grows old. Uther is old, and yet love is older yet. It is the defining force, the thing that separates the living from the dead. Then again, perhaps love is not meant to belong to anyone. At least, not to him. All that Uther loves turns bad, becomes rotten. Spoilt, the beauty diminished.

The sun sets on Camelot and Uther wonders.


	20. Chapter 20: Heaven's Calling

**AN: Naughty Laura hasn't updated in a while, has she? :/ All I can say in my defence is that I've been very busy. And also slightly depressed after Torchwood (how could they kill Ianto!!!!? :O) but that's going off on a tangent. Hopefully, this'll make up for the lack of new chapters (both this one and the other one which I've been trying to do for like, two months and have so far written the word 'The'. Beautiful ;]). I thought Will needed a bit of a mention 'cause he's painfully neglected around the fanfiction front (save for the wonderful fics by xxDibDabxx :] whom I apologise to for not reviewing more often :/.) **

**On a different note, not sure what you would call this if I'm honest. It's not angst and I'm not sure that it's fluff either so maybe it's fangst? Haha. I just laughed at my own joke, which is kind of lame ;). Actually, do you suppose that's a kind of vampire angst? ;) **

**Okay, okay! My mum's just said that, and I kid you not, "Hopefully some day I'll wake up and realise that I'm not funny." Beautiful. Even my own mother is nasty to me :o. What is the world coming to? ;) **

**Anyway, here's the fic; hope you like it (:**

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So this was death then. Not how Will had imagined it at all. No big, gold gates; no smiling saint; no heavenly light. Nothing there to greet him other than the blackness, of which there was abundance. He shuddered. He had always hated the dark.

At first, Will had thought himself simply to be asleep. Dreaming. The world was black and he was white and everything else fell into shades of grey. There was no colour here, no sounds or smells. He'd gone to pinch his arm and then realised that it wasn't there. He had no arm, no legs, no eyes… He had no body and therefore, he did not exist.

He'd received that realisation with unexplainable calmness as the memories had come rushing back to him. Ah yes. The idiotic moment when he had jumped in front of that stupid, ego-driven prince, taken the arrow himself, writhed on the floor in agony…

It should not have been him.

The world had, for the briefest of seconds, burst into red. Anger flared within Will and threatened to drown him. Despair, misery, fear; they all raised their ugly heads, opening their mouths wide to swallow him. All air seemed to vanish until Will was choking.

Dead then. Alive no longer. Gone, vanished, poof! Like one of Merlin's spells.

Merlin. The name stirred something within Will's heart – but that was foolish, Will thought, because he had none – and the hatred vanished. He smiled softly. At least, he told himself, he would have had he of had a mouth. This place was in-between; possible and yet impossible all at the same time. It hurt his head, or what should have been his head anyway.

Without really intending to, Will thought of the warlock. All those memories, like the time when they were ten and went exploring down by the river. Will had been too cocky, had fallen in and needed rescuing. Merlin, with no thought to his personal safety, had jumped in and promptly started drowning. Couldn't swim, Will remembered. In the end, it had been Matthew who had pulled them out, taken them to Hunith and given them a scolding that had lasted a lifetime. Like naughty dogs, they had sat there and listened, each slowly inching further and further towards the fire in an effort to be dry.

Laughter blossomed out of where William's mouth should have been. It was then that he noticed how the blackness had receded, the space around him turning a cold grey. It was odd, Will thought, because it was almost as if the thought of Merlin was driving the blackness away.

His mind wandered further along the Merlin road. Eight and Will's father had died leaving the young boy devastated. Merlin had been there for him then, had held his hand and kept the pain at bay whilst William had cried. It had been Merlin who had banished away the night monsters, who had stopped Will's dreams from destroying him. It had been Merlin whom had knocked on Will's door in the morning, eyes puffy from lack of sleep.

It had been Will who had very nearly destroyed him.

The compassion Merlin had shown him danced like a flame in his heart and Will grinned. It had been then that he'd learnt of the warlock's powers; how he had cast spell after spell every night so that Will might sleep peacefully at a cost to his own rest.

Another smile as Will realised the space was turning silver. Bright light seemed to filter through a specific point and Will shielded his eyes.

Eyes. He had eyes, and what's more, he had a skeleton too! He ran fingers of bone over the smooth marble of his hips, over his ribs and down his legs. Hastily, he searched for another memory, another event that would give him life.

He found it in the day Merlin had called him brother. Happiness positively exploded from him as he remembered the way the warlock had patted him on the back, invited him round for tea and then presented him with a small wooden sculpture carved by his own hand. It was an otter, and a poor replica at that (Will had had to ask what it was), but it had made Will's heart leap because it was the sign. Brothers bonded. No longer just friends but family. Finally, for the first time in his life, thirteen year old Will had felt true acceptance.

As the memory finished, another filled its place. Night time and the two boys were stalking through farm land intent on punishing Matthew for yet another lecture. They found his beloved cabbage crops, well grown and a ripe for harvesting, and took them. Stealing, Hunith had later called it, but in Will's eyes, it wasn't really. Merlin had felt guilty and dropped on the ground the three silver coins he had been saving. To Will, that sentiment alone was worth far more than the five cabbages they had stolen. Humanity, he knew, could never be bought.

Eagerly, Will glanced down at his body. Sure enough, within the skeletal frame were several things Will had never seen before. One, he knew, was his heart, though it did not beat. Nor did the lungs rise and fall, though to Will it did not matter. He knew he was dead and besides, the rest of his organs were far more fascinating. He prodded the one in his skull, surprised at its sponginess. The brain then.

He laughed as he remembered telling Merlin that he had no brain. The warlock was always getting himself into trouble. Not my fault, Merlin used to say with a blush, even thought they had both known it was. The warlock was just too curious for his own good. Though, Will thought with a small spark of gratefulness, Merlin had always got them out of trouble. Either they both got out, he used to say, or none of them did.

If only that was true now.

Immediately, Will was filled with shame. How dare he think that, wish Merlin dead when Merlin had been the one who had saved him so many times and for what? For Will to go think awful thoughts and feel sorry for himself? The young man thought not. Mind you, a snide voice in his head said, Merlin would save anything he classed as needing rescue. An image of a bird with a broken wing forced itself into his head; Ru, they had called it, after the noise it made. It was a pitiful creature, its raven feathers in disarray, its legs waving in the wind. Will had wanted to kill it, put it out of its misery so it no longer had to suffer. Merlin had been outraged. He'd picked it up, taken it home and cared for it until it had been well enough to leave. He hadn't want to let it go – that was Merlin; so full of love that he couldn't bear it when something wouldn't let him love it – and it had gone. Flown to freedom just as Will had flown to death.

In a way, Will almost felt sorry for Merlin. How awful, to be stuck back on earth with all its problems and anger when he could just be free. Be nothing. But then, Merlin would never be free and he could never be nothing. Not until everything was right and the evil was banished; he would be stuck on Earth forever.

The thought broke Will's heart.

But there it was. The final gem that gave Will back his body. Over flesh crawled skin, pale and luminous in the light that had turned white. It was coming, he realised, from an arch made of glittering ice, penetrating through the darkness and bathing him in its radiance. It was a comforting light, warm despite the cold, and it made him smile. He felt an inescapable urge to throw himself past the light, to leave this barren place and follow the voice in his head.

_Pass through the arch._

He moved to stand before it over a ground covered by swirling mists. He was naked and it should have been cold but it wasn't. He felt strangely exhilarated as he took a deep breath and tried to peer past the light. Nothing save for… no, it couldn't be! But it was. His father's face, warm and smiling, his muddy brown eyes dancing with joy and in them was reflected the warlock, grinning as inanely as ever. Will smiled.

Merlin's final gift to him was welcoming him home.


	21. Chapter 21: The Mirror World

**AN: Quicker update than last time, but I apologise if this one is kind of shoddy; my excuse is that I only had an hour to write it :P. Anyway (If I say this word more than twice in my AN, feel free to shoot me. Actually, that's kind of extreme, but flame away ;). It's an annoying habit. Kind of like rambling ;]), I'll leave you to dedeuce your own conclusions about this one as a lot of it is intentionally vague. **

**Anyway (that's the second time ;]), thanks to Isis the Sphinx (cool name btw!), GoodyThreeShoes and luvondarox for their recent reviews :D. Eleven more then I'll have 100 :D:D **

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In Arthur's chambers, there's a mirror, the frame gilded, the glass heavily polished. It hangs on his wall like ivy on cold stone, creeping, creeping to the front of his mind. He can't bear to look at it and yet he won't have it removed. Fascination is a deadly thing and so is the mirror. In the day, it's simply a mirror; at night, it is a terror.

It should be okay, Arthur tells himself, because he's real and the mirror's not. Where he is flesh and blood, the mirror is just metal, cold and empty. It's never been alive, never taken a breath or felt the gentle pulsing of its heart. It's never felt, nor smiled, nor cried or screamed.

It's never even existed.

Arthur knows it's not real. He knows that where it hangs is just a cold stone wall, a bare face reflecting the moonlit chamber. He knows that no light bounces off its surface, no face appears that is his own. The mirror has no other purpose than to torment him with his imagination. With his fears. To take every little dream he has and twist it into something unrecognisable. Something horrible.

The mirror is good at that.

From where he perches, Arthur watches it with a hawk-like intensity. Outside, the world grows black but the mirror grows blue, and he readies himself for the attack. Explosions of red and yellow and green are fired out at him, vivid images that wrench his heart from his chest and step on it. He takes clawed fingers, rakes them across the air in front of him and cries out.

It stops.

He is frozen and the mirror does not stir. He feels it in his sub-consciousness, an enemy force rooting around his brain. It pulls him towards it, slowly, purposely, so strong that his legs cannot refuse. His mind fights for control but it loses, as he knew it would. It does so every night, and yet it never stops trying just as the mirror never stops calling. The two are linked; the mirror and his mind, the man and the memories.

He stops in front of it. A bottomless pool of navy blue awaits him, still and threatening. He feels himself being drawn towards it, leaning forward, taking a deep breath. Resistance is futile as he falls forward. Submersion is a shock and life no longer matters.

His own personal nightmare rises to meet him.

The picture before him makes way for another. Water drains away and Arthur is left shivering, blue eyes staring beseechingly at the scene taking shape before him. A face, so familiar and yet so different. Arthur's own features stares back at him, and yet it is like they belong to a stranger; where his eyes are sad, the stranger's are merry; his mouth is down turned, the strangers alive with a smile.

Two men. Two emotions.

He raises a hand to touch his doppelganger's face but instead meets a hand. The skin is soft, smooth, glowing healthily. Arthur looks down at his own grey scars and scowls. The stranger grins, reaches out a hand; it passes straight through Arthur and meets with that of another. Three pairs of blue eyes but only two that can see. Arthur is a ghost drinking in someone else's joy.

His joy, he realises, or at least, what should have been his had his mother survived. He watches her now, her pale face luminous with life. He knows that the tall, graceful figure before him is her by the love that radiates from her, seeps into her son and warms him. This is a prince who can smile, a prince who knows how to love.

He is not Arthur.

The vision fades to reveal a boy of twelve being sang softly to sleep by a woman Arthur knows well; Nimueh, her beautiful face devoid of any malice. She cuts a proud figure, but there's a gentleness in her that Arthur never dreamed she could possess. Her voice too is sweet, delicate, not that of a hardened killer. In her eyes, Arthur sees love towards the blond haired boy she is caring for. Arthur knows that it's him

Another fading, another sight. His father this time, happy and smiling, his booming laughter echoing around the hall. Opposite him is a man, his face alive as he recounts some story. He has dark hair and blue eyes, and Arthur is reminded of Morgana. Sure enough, on his knee perches a girl of no more than ten, her raven hair hanging in long tendrils down her back. She is smiling, and yet it does not reach her eyes. Arthur remembers that look. Finally, something he recognizes! The little girl looks up at him, seems to see him. As he watches, she slips off the man's knee, skips over to Arthur and grins. There's so much innocence then that it makes him feel queasy.

"You don't belong here," she says, and at once all recognition fades. What Arthur had mistaken for sadness had actually been something else, something deeper, something that he cannot explain. The girl before him is Morgana as he has never known her. "You're sad." He nods not trusting himself to speak. "Why?"

The childish question hangs in the air and he shrugs. He could give her any number of reasons why, but she is too young; she won't understand. Morgana takes hold of his hand, grins again and then begins to pull him from the room, first at a walk and then at a run. Arthur is dragged along behind, too slow, too weary to be able to keep pace. As they run, she seems to grow, blossoms into the young woman Arthur has learnt to love.

All the while, the mirror world grows fainter.

He does not realise at first what they are running towards. He does not see until it's too late what they are about to hit. He opens his mouth to cry out but then they are through, smashing through glass and sending shards flying. Arthur shuts his mouth, his eyes, wrenches his hand from Morgana's to cover their heads.

She is gone and Arthur is staring at what they have broken.

* * *

Morning breaks and birds chirp at the window. Arthur opens one sleepy eye, stares at the pigeon in annoyance. He is tired and his head is pounding. He slips out of the bed, throws cold water over his face. His reflection shows heavy bags under his eyes, a small gash on his forehead that's red in the amber light. Immediately, the dream comes rushing back to him in a swarm of pain. The happy faces seem to taunt him, berate him as he whirls round to face the mirror ever hanging on the wall in his dreams.

It is gone.

Not that he expected it to be there, of course. It is a dream mirror after all; insubstantial, imagined whilst he was asleep. In his dreams, he invents time, and time in turn invents the mirror. He goes over to the wall, runs calloused hands over it, searches for the icy smoothness of cold glass, a nick in the wall. Nothing.

He is a fool.

On the stone flags, something sparkles. Like a magpie, he is drawn to it, bending down until his sweaty palms clasp around sharp edges. His pressure is too much and the shard cuts straight into his skin. Numb to the pain, he picks it up, looks at it with confusion.

He sees.

Morgana, more beautiful than he has ever seen her, smiling serenely, her delicate hand upright in a wave. In the shard she is tiny, but he can see her as clearly as if she were before him. She mouths to him three words, smiles once more and then vanishes into inky blackness. A flash of blinding white light and then Arthur is looking at dust, trailing it through his fingers like sand on a beach.

A smile and then a sigh.

Three words and he is cured.

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**AN: Anyone got any idea what the words are? And do you reckon it's a dream or not? :) Hopefully this little oneshot had intrigued you anyhow :) **


	22. Chapter 22: The Noise

**AN: Okay. I'm officially a very nasty person who has neglected her ff duties :/. But in my defence, I'm at 50,000 words on my novel so ;). Haha. Well, this is a random thing out of the old archives as I've feel very guilt for not giving an update. First song fic and it's pretty short, but I hope it's alright (:. Song's called The Noise by the wonderful Regina Spektor who I absolutely loveeee (: **

**Hopefully this'll make sense (:**

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_All the power of my voice can't compare  
With the power of a quiet whisper  
Still, it's a choice, and I choose to rage  
Instead of ever quietly listening_

It hurt. It hurt more than Merlin could possibly imagined.

Somehow, he had fooled himself that it would be okay. That Arthur would understand because they were friends, were they not? Merlin trusted Arthur, and Arthur trusted him, and both would do whatever they could to save the other. That was how it worked, this friendship lark. Two sides, two separate parts, one truth.

But Merlin had been wrong.

Sure, it took two people to give but only one to take. And Arthur had taken, oh yes. Everything Merlin had, every security had been seized by prince and been trampled on. Made a poultice of to heal Arthur, when didn't Merlin need just as much healing? Wasn't he as scarred by what he had done? Whom he had killed?

_I can't hear you... I can't hear you anymore  
I can't hear you... I can't hear you through this noise  
I can't hear you through the noise_

And now Arthur wouldn't listen. He was refusing to see Merlin, had cast him out of the court and out of his life. Was this all the thanks the warlock received for saving the prince's life? Was this all he meant, a bag and vittles for the way home?

Home.

Didn't Arthur understand that Camelot was his home now? After the death of his mother, Camelot was all he had left. Everybody – _everything_ - he loved was in that city nestled amongst the stones. Above the battlements, the sky was a dark purple, the colour of Merlin's hurt. How could Arthur look at the sky and not realise he was tearing Merlin's heart apart?

_All the power of my words can't compare  
With the power of a silent answer  
Still, it's a choice, and I choose to rage  
Ignoring all those silent answers_

And there were no answers, were there?

In Arthur's eyes, he didn't deserve them just as he didn't deserve a chance to explain. His mistake could not be rectified and he would be punished. And what a punishment it was. Eternity alone with his thoughts, his regrets. Ten hundred years from now and there would still be blood on his hands. Did Arthur not realise what a punishment that was?

Inside Merlin's blood, magic crackled.

_I can't hear you... I can't hear you anymore  
I can't hear you... I can't hear you through this noise  
I can't hear you through the noise_


	23. Chapter 23: The Fairytale

**AN: Okay, so this was lining up to be a really great fic and then I lost it so it's basically a rewrite. I don't like this one like I liked the other version, but as dragon is about to cut the internet and i haven't posted anything in yonksss, i'm thinking it might be a nice idea to update (:**

**Reviews are ecstasy (:**

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Murder. At least, that's what it must have seemed like from outside the cottage if anyone had happened to be passing that wild, stormy night. From inside the whitewashed threshold emerged all sorts of terrible screams and cries, punctuated occasionally by a loud bang. Indeed, everyone who heard the noises found their feet moving comparatively faster than before, their legs less eager to tarry. It was only if they had been brave enough to knock upon the door that they would have discovered the truth; a young girl, dark haired and pale skinned rushing about the house being pursued by her grinning grandfather, charged with the task of sending her to bed.

It was, he observed as she ducked through another doorway, no easy feat.

In the end, it was only promise of a story that could convince the spirited young thing to climb into the covers, though even then, she acted like it was a great chore with overdramatic sighs and groans. In revenge, the old man gave her a tickle which sent her diving for protection under her blanket. Outside the window, the shutters shook and the grandfather eagerly pulled them closed.

"It's windy tonight." He bowed his head low to give his granddaughter a kiss on the forehead. Inside her bed, the girl squirmed as she tried to avoid him, before giggling hysterically as his hands resumed their tickling.

"No, naughty Pops!" she gasped after a while. Tears of mirth gleamed in the corner of her eyes, and despite her reprimand, her lips were stretched wide revealing small, pearly teeth. "You're not getting away that easily." For a girl of nine, she was surprisingly strong as she gripped his wrists, green eyes beseeching. "You promised."

Before her gaze, he melted.

With a melodramatic sigh, the old man settled down into the old, wooden rocking chair by the girl's bed and said in a hushed tone,

"Very well then, but don't you be telling your mother I've given you nightmares again. Bad enough with Alga harping on at me all day. Now then, what'd you be wanting to hear a story about then?"

"A princess," the girl said, just as he had known she would.

"Not again. Wouldn't you rather hear of the valiant knight who killed the fiercesomest dragon ever to have lived?"

"Does it have a princess in it?"

"No, it bloody well doesn't. Just like your mother, you are! Always wanting to know about fine ladies and their fancy frocks."

"Please, Pops?" Beaming, she batted long eyelashes.

"What if I know nothing more about any princesses? What would you say to me then?"

The little girl sniffed, but then sat up a little straighter, eyes dancing.

"I'd say that you're the cleverest man in the world and you know everything." Her relative grinned despite himself as he ran long fingers through thick, greying hair.

"Definitely like your mother. Alright then. How about I tell you a story about a Lady." The little girl pouted. "Now now, don't you look at me with those big, old puppy eyes. The Lady was like I princess, and she was the most beautiful woman in the whole kingdom. In fact, she looked very much like you." He could tell now that he had the young girl's attention for she was looking at him with rapturous curiosity.

"Really? Are you sure she wasn't a princess?"

"Well, very close. She was very important in her own right, was the Lady Morgana."

"Morgana," the little girl breathed. "That's a pretty name. Did she marry a prince?"

"No, though I'm guessing she might have liked to at first." Green eyes looked at him impatiently and he gave a mock rolling of his eyes. "Alright little lady. Good stories take time, see, and blow me down if this here isn't a good one. It all started with -"

"That's not how you begin a story." The little girl's jaw jutted forward in the perfect impression of her mother. "You start with 'Once upon a time'."

"Yes but –"

"Say it."

"Okay, okay! Once upon a time in a land not so far away, there lived a beautiful woman, the fairest in the kingdom. People came from far and wide simply to look upon her porcelain face with its eyes the colour of the sea, and in an attempt to woo her, men left oodles of diamonds at her feet. But she did not care for their presents, nor their attention. The young woman was lonely and there was an ache in her heart that could not be filled, though she tried.

"Every day, she forced herself to try and fall in love with the knights that courted her, but found she could not, for she could never be herself with them; the Lady Morgana had a terrible, deep, dark secret which if discovered, would have resulted in her death. You see, whenever she slept, the lady had visions of the future.

"For many months, the lady felt lost in the knowledge that she had magic powers, something her guardian, king Uther of Camelot, had made punishable by death. Now, that would have been enough to contend with, but the lady also had to deal with the knowledge that her power was getting stronger. Slowly, her sanity began to be stripped away –"

"Oh, that's awful. This is a horrible story!"

"Hold your horses. I promised you a good story, didn't I, so it's a good story you're getting.

"Anyway, one other knew of Morgana's plight and despite warnings from his mentor, decided to help her. He himself was immensely powerful, possessing perhaps more magic in his finger tips than Morgana owned in her whole body, but selflessly, he taught her how to control her magic and in return, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom found herself falling in love with him.

"One day, she found herself confessing her feelings and was shocked to find that her love was reciprocated. Though the couple were bouncing for joy, the news had to be kept secret for the man she had fallen in love with was none other than the prince's servant. For many long months, they snatched whatever time together they could and were happy, but then the lady made a terrible mistake; she confided the relationship to a foolish stable boy, who in actual fact was a spy for Uther.

"The King was furious and immediately took action. The young lovers, blissfully unaware of the goings on, rode back from their day out to be separated; the servant was thrown to the rats in the dungeons, the lady locked in her room without food.

"Did she escape and rescue the warlock?"

The old man paused, suddenly thoughtful and it seemed to the little girl that his eyes clouded momentarily.

"No," he said. "The prince rescued the warlock, though he was sent away in disgrace."

"What happened to the lady?"

"With the servant's absence, she declined into misery and spent all of her time crying. The king employed hundreds of physicians but none could tell him what the matter was; it was too shocking for them to comprehend, I think, that a lady could love someone of lower class than herself." The grandfather turned away quickly and wiped moisture from his eyes.

"In the end, Uther decided that the only thing that could be done with her was marry her off, so a suitable suitor was found and the wedding arranged. Right up to the end, she waited for the servant but he did not come; he tried, of course, but not even his love for Morgana could cause him to kill his prince."

"Pops, why are you sad?" The question made the old man start, and immediately, he wiped tears from his eyes.

"Because the ending is so happy." For effect, he gave her a beaming smile.

"See, in the end, the handsome servant rescues the lady and Uther, seeing the strength of their love, grants them a pardon and the servant titles so they can have everything they want and more."

"Did they have lots of children?"

"Yes, my dear, lots and lots of bright faced cherubs, and the lady's maid married the prince and together, they all lived happily after."

The little girl smiled as she snuggled down.

"That was a good story. Night night, Pops."

"Nighty night."

The grandfather left the room hastily, tripping over his own feet in the process. A solitary tear trickled down his cheek as he thought of that bright, winter morning where the frost still hugged the trees and the church bells clanged.

In the second she had looked him as she was ushered down the steps in her flowing, white gown, he had seen her soul, and he had seen the damage he had done to her. There was no hatred, no anger, just emptiness in her gaze before her eyes slid off him and to the face of her new husband. He had been laughing, and she had been crying, and the little stable boy with his hands pushed into his pockets had suddenly realised what he'd done.

He'd ruined the end of the fairytale.

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**AN: Later on, I might rewrite this as Morgana telling her daughter or Uther telling his grandson or something. Interested, or was it so bad that I should just bury it? (:**


	24. Chapter 24: The Fairytale Rewrite

**AN: Okay, so here's a rewrite of the previous chapter, this time in the view of Uther. Whilst it's still not perfect, I think it's marginally better than the other but it'll be interesting to hear thoughts and opinions on which one you prefer. This one's a lot longer btw (:**

**Uther might be a wee bit out of character for some bits, but then he's meant to be a new, repentant Uther. Not sure how that works but... :/**

**Review and I'll... be very happy ;) **

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As a general rule of thumb, Uther Pendragon made it his business to spend as little time with children as possible. Most of his own son's childhood has been spent in the care of his tutors, and contact with Uther had been limited to say the least. It wasn't that the King didn't love his son – on the contrary, Arthur was Uther's Achilles' heel - just that he considered himself to have better things to do than fulfil the whims of an egocentric, snot nosed child.

As it was, Uther's dislike of children had stayed with him over the years, which was partly why he was so surprised to find upon entering his chamber a young girl curled up on the floor, the pale cream of her skirts wrinkled and filthy.

He opened his mouth to speak but fell into silence as he realised she was weeping, her long, dark hair hiding her face. A flurry of emotions battered him and he fought to keep himself from shouting and ordering her to leave.

"Why are you in the King's apartment?"

"I – I – I'm sorry. I –"

More tears and the words became indistinguishable. Several hiccupping sobs enveloped the girl as she tried her best to regain her composure.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, but his voice was surprisingly soft. Startled, she looked up with big, green eyes wet with tears.

"I got lost," she whispered raising an alabaster hand to her face and wiping away the moisture on her cheeks, "and I was scared."

"Scared?"

"Yes. Daddy said I was to stay with my brother but he was mean to me so I ran away. He said he was going to put a spider down my back!"

"How terrible. And you couldn't find the way back?"

"No mister. And then I heard someone coming and thought it might be the King so I ran and hid in here."

"The King?" Uther arched an eyebrow, suddenly thoughtful. "Why would you hide from the King?"

"Because my dress is dirty and I didn't want him to be cross." She burst into more sobs.

Somewhat awkwardly, Uther handed the girl a handkerchief. She took it gratefully, blew her nose and then pushed it up her sleeve. Her grace as she picked herself up from off the floor reminded Uther of someone else.

"And that would have made him cross?"

"Daddy told me I had to be good so I don't embarrass him, and that King Uther is a very busy man who doesn't have time to speak to children."

"And who is your father?"

"Sir Geoffrey, mister."

"Ah, so you are his daughter, Freya?" A nod and then a sniff. "And –"

"Who's the lady in the portrait?" The question was so unexpected that Uther was momentarily caught off guard as his eyes found the smiling face of his wife. "That one. She looks very pretty."

"She was. She's the Lady Igraine, wife of the King. He misses her very much."

"And him? That's prince Arthur, isn't it? He's very handsome! My mammy says I should be a good girl because then he might want to marry me." Freya grinned wickedly and Uther found himself laughing despite himself at the thought of such a little creature marrying his son.

"I think Prince Arthur is a little too old for you," he said in the gentlest voice he could muster, but still the girl continued to grin as her eyes moved over to the final portrait. With it, Uther's stomach flipped and his heart turned cold. There, frowning down at him, was Morgana, her doll-like face framed by thick, dark hair, her fingers clenched. The portrait was newer than the others, sent over by the Lady's husband at the King's request. Even now as he stared at it, Uther found himself drowning in her eyes and the sadness that resided there.

"Who's she?" came the dreaded question and, setting his jaw, Uther told her the answer. Maybe it was the woman's eyes or maybe it was something in the man's deliverance that caught Freya's attention; he seemed suddenly so sad and so grave, though he had looked such a stern man when he'd walked in that Freya was certain any grief had been beyond him. "Will you tell me about her? Was she a princess?"

Inwardly cursing, Uther gave a fixed smile. What business did this child have asking questions? Granted, he was certain she knew nothing of his title but had her father taught her no respect? Children were to speak when spoken to and otherwise remain silent.

He was about to shake his head when something panged in the back of his mind and caused him to reconsider. Perhaps it would do him good to speak of it; certainly it had been eating away at him these past years, and what could a mere girl do?

"No, she was not a princess."

"Not a princess?" The child sounded incredulous. "But she's so very beautiful, and all beautiful people are princesses!"

"Who told you that?"

"Mammy. Mammy says I can be a princess too if I want to."

"Your mammy's a very clever woman." The sentence should have been playful but it came out flat and lacklustre, though luckily that escaped Freya's attention. She was leaning forward where she had positioned herself in a chair, eager and enraptured in the knowledge that a story was about to begin.

"It all started with -"

"That's not how you begin a story." The little girl's jaw jutted forward in the perfect imitation of his son, and once again, Uther found himself on the brink of laughter. He didn't envy the Wild-Thing's parents at all, and by the sounds of it, Lord Geoffrey had his hands full what with a spirited daughter and a 'nasty son'. "You have to start with 'Once upon a time'. It's how all stories begin."

"Yes but –"

"Say it." As an afterthought, the word 'please' was added.

"Fine. Once upon a time in a land in Camelot, there lived a beautiful woman, the fairest in the kingdom. She was the daughter of one of the King's closest friends, and so it was that upon her father's death she came to live at the castle. Over time, she blossomed from a miserable, cold youth into a spirited and beautiful woman, and as the years flew by, she grew more and more like her father.

"But despite her life of luxury, Morgana was unhappy. Every day, the King pressured her to find a husband and every time, she refused. It had been his designs to have her marry Prince Arthur, but it was obvious that they looked upon each other as brother and sister and so the King's plan was foiled. Though he tried to be patient with Morgana, his tolerance soon began to wane and -"

"He doesn't sound very nice," mused the girl, biting her lip in thought. "I know I'm not meant to say it, but the King seems very mean to her."

"Mean? How so? He took her in and gave her a home when she had none. And though he did not show it often, he loved her like his own daughter and would see her come to no harm! He wanted only the best for her! He thought he was _giving _her the best he could! Certainly, she was one of the only people he allowed to check him and berate him, and her advice to him was always listened to, though I'm sad to say not necessarily heeded. Was it his fault that he was too blinded by the pain of his past to see himself for what he really was?"

Freya shook her head. "No, I suppose not, though I'm glad my daddy's not like him." She looked suddenly alarmed. "You won't tell him I said that though, will you? Or the prince? He might not want to marry me if he knew!"

Uther chuckled dryly.

"Your secret's safe with me, if mine is safe with yours."

Freya nodded, uncertain of the secret but keen to please. She was regretting interrupting the story now for a certain atmosphere of sorrow had enveloped the room and it confused her. Its source seemed to be the statuesque man that sat before, his head raised as his eyes drank in the portrait.

"Please mister. Will you continue?"

Uther nodded, his throat feeling suddenly tight. When he spoke, it was not with the certain, proud voice of the King but the tired, croaky voice of a weary, old man.

"Every day in an effort to please her guardian, the Lady Morgana forced herself to try and fall in love with the knights that courted her but found she could not, for she could never be herself with them; you see, the Lady Morgana had a terrible, deep, dark secret which if discovered, would have resulted in her death. Whenever she slept, the lady had visions of the future.

"For many months, the lady felt lost in the knowledge that she had magic powers, something her guardian had made punishable by death. The laws are more relaxed now, but back then Uther was unwilling to allow anything that put his kingdom at risk. It might seem cold to you, but he really did have the best intentions at the time."

Uther paused and found himself again gazing into the deep wells that were Morgana's eyes, almost as if he was willing her to see that. The artist had captured her perfectly, the slightly haughty look offset by the haunted air she had about her. It had been too long since he'd seen those eyes; he missed them, he realised, and everything they had stood for.

"For you and I, that would have been enough to contend with, but Morgana also had to deal with the knowledge that her power was getting stronger. Slowly, her sanity began to be stripped away –"

"Oh, that's awful. This is a horrible story! Poor Morgana!"

"Don't all stories start off horribly? One other knew of Morgana's plight and despite warnings from his kindly and well-meaning mentor, decided to help her. He himself was immensely powerful, possessing perhaps more magic in his finger tips than Morgana owned in her whole body, but selflessly, he taught her how to control her magic and in return, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom found herself falling in love with him.

"As it was, the feeling was mutual, but the news had to be kept secret for the man she had fallen in love with was none other than the prince's manservant. For many long months, they snatched whatever time together they could and were happy, but then the Lady Morgana made a terrible mistake; trusting in the love of her guardian, she confided the relationship to him in hope that he might gave them his blessing.

"Blinded by his hatred and fear of magic, the King was furious and immediately took action. The young lovers were separated; the servant was thrown to the rats in the dungeons, the lady locked in her room without food.

"Did she escape and rescue the servant? Or did he rescue her and spirit her away?" Freya's eyes shone and the guilt in Uther's stomach intensified. He paused, suddenly thoughtful and it seemed to the little girl that his eyes clouded momentarily.

"No," he said eventually. "The prince rescued the warlock, though he was sent away in disgrace and did not return for many months."

"What happened to the lady?"

"With the servant's absence, she declined into misery and spent all of her time weeping. The King, desperate to see her recover, employed hundreds of physicians but none could tell him what the matter was; it was too shocking for them to comprehend, I think, that a lady could love someone of lower class than herself. Indeed it certainly was for me. How I have lived to regret that. How different things might have been…"

He lapsed into further silence, longer than the last. With the awkwardness of a new friendship, Freya reached out a tentative hand and patted the old man on his shoulder. He stiffened at her touch, but then sighed and gave a small smile more akin to a grimace.

"In his desperation, Uther decided that she should be wed, so a suitable suitor was found and the wedding arranged. She used to sit by her window – waiting I think, right up to the end."

"Did the servant not come?"

"He tried, but even the most powerful of us can be blinded where our feelings are concerned. His love for Morgana was strong enough to shake the foundations beneath our feet, but so was his love for Prince Arthur whom he would not kill. I think in his mind, he was under the impression that Morgana would somehow know of his presence and refuse to marry the imposter."

"And that makes you sad?" The question made the old man start, and immediately, he wiped tears from his eyes.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes it does."

"Is the ending very awful?"

Suddenly aware of whom he was conversing, Uther sat up a little straighter and plastered a wide, cheesy smile on his face. "Don't be silly! No story can end with such bleak prospects!"

"Over time, the mind becomes confused. I remember now! In, the handsome servant rescues the lady and Uther, seeing the strength of their love, grants them a pardon and the servant titles so they can have everything they want and more."

"That's nice. Did they have lots of children?"

"Yes, lots and lots of bright faced cherubs, and the lady's maid married the prince and together, they all lived happily after."

The little girl smiled and then rose to her feet.

"Thank you! It was a good story, though I think the King should have a happier portrait of her painted. I can remember the way back now. I'm going to tell daddy what my brother said and he's going to be so very angry!"

And with a wicked glint in her eye and a spring in her step, the little girl disappeared through the door and was gone from Uther's life forever.

He remained where he was for several moments longer. A solitary tear trickled down his cheek as he thought of that bright, winter morning where the frost still hugged the trees and the church bells clanged. In the market place, the crowds had gathered in anticipation of seeing the most beautiful woman alive on her wedding day. From his box, Uther had watched the procession pass.

In the second she had looked him as she was ushered down the steps in her flowing, white gown, he had seen her soul, and he had seen the damage he had done to her. There was no hatred there, no anger, just emptiness in her gaze before her eyes slid off him and to the face of her new husband. He had been laughing, and she had been crying, and the tall, gangly figure in amongst the crowd had sunk to his knees.

For the briefest moment, they merely held each other's gaze, and then he was gone and she was being forced into her carriage.

A future had flashed by Uther then but it had faded into mist. He had robbed them of that, just as he had robbed himself.

He'd ruined the end of the fairytale.


	25. Chapter 25: Uther Remembers

**AN: This is something I started ages ago but never actually finished, so forgive me if it seems a little choppy in places. I probably should go over it, but seven hours of theatre studies has turned by brain to mush so it would probably go wrong anyway. **

**Sorry about the eons it has taken me to update - life has been pretty busy, and I've had so much bloody coursework. I never ever ever want to see another copy of Pride and Prejudice again tbh (although Collins ftw in my opinion ;]) Hahaaa!**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy and reviews are lovely :)**

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Uther remembers.

Arthur thinks he doesn't but he does. All the little things, the little details that helped shape his son are engrained within Uther's mind, in every crevice, round every corner; hidden but not forgotten. No, they could never be forgotten.

He remembers them now, every hope and dream his son has ever shared with him. He knows they are few, but he cherishes them all the same. They make him more human somehow, remind him that beneath the layers of skin and flesh, somewhere within the confines of his ribcage, there is a heart that beats.

For Uther, Arthur is the air he has to breathe to stay alive.

Uther knows he has been a poor father. Not intentionally mean nor cruel, but sometimes negligent and harsh. He hadn't wanted to spoil his son, but now perhaps, he thinks he has gone in the other direction – Arthur has been unhappy, and no amount of regretting can change that.

But Uther has been miserable too.

How hard it is to stare at his son every day with the knowledge that he is staring at Igraine's murderer. How difficult Uther finds it to look into those blue eyes and not think that they are the very same eyes he has lost. How wretched he feels knowing that he blames his son for something he had no chance of escaping. Uther was the executioner after all. The blow might have been dealt by another, but it was his greed, his _selfishness_, that had been the cause.

He hates himself for it.

Looking at his son now, Uther can see why Arthur might hate him too. They have very little in common – Arthur is Igraine through and through, right from the blonde hair to the slight pout of his lips, and his character is like hers too. Uther has always been to rash, too quick to anger and too proud to admit his mistakes. Arthur has her gentleness, that tenacious willingness to do whatever is right no matter what the consequences. He is brave like his mother, and as strong.

Uther has always been weak. Uther has always been a coward.

Perhaps that's why he punished Arthur so greatly. Every failure, every fault, he has made a spectacle of. At the time, he thought he was going his best to keep Arthur grounded, but he realises now that subconsciously, he had wanted to humiliate his son. He'd wanted Arthur to hate him as he hated himself, because somehow that made everything so much simpler. Easier.

Punishment has always been easier than love.

Or perhaps love is a punishment? It certainly seems like it. Everything Uther has loves has been lost to him – yes, Arthur still breathes, but there is nothing between them, not even respect. His son views him as a tyrant, a failure, and he shall never know how much Uther loves him because the king is too frightened to tell him. In Uther's mind, admitting it aloud makes the prospect of losing Arthur seem even more possible.

He couldn't bear that.

There have been three times when Uther has now thought Arthur lost. The first was when he was no older than ten, and had nearly drowned in the river. Uther had always been encouraging him to show off and outdo everyone else; certainly he'd never thought that Arthur would be so stupid as to try and launch himself from the top of the waterfall to the pool below with checking the depth of the awaiting water. It was only the quick thinking of his knights that had saved him. The second and the third are all the more recent – the strange incident with the questing beast, and that odd recovery Arthur made only the other day, seemingly returning from death. He was just knocked out, Arthur told him later, but Uther knows different. A practised liar, he is adept at working out when someone else is too. There was no rise and fall of the chest, no beat of the heart inside its fleshy prison. He had looked at the pale body and felt only anguish that he had failed once more at keeping his son alive.

Perhaps he is doomed to fail him.

How will history remember him, he wonders? As a noble king or a merciless tyrant? He's studied the wrong doings of his forefathers, the catastrophes of his sires, and yet every step seems to take him closer to them. He knows it is time to stop walking, and yet he is breaking into a run.

The King of Camelot is barrelling towards his own destruction.

It does not frighten him anymore, he realises, the thought that he might die. It seems now almost a welcome option, because what is he clinging onto? Everything he values has up and gone; Arthur is grown and his friends – those he calls his friends – are dead and rotting. He has learnt the hard way that power, something that sustained him so often through his youth, means nothing. It weakens over time until finally, it is not there anymore.

Like wine, the aftertaste is sour.

Arthur is staring at him, the sapphire eyes narrowed to slits. Uther realises he is waiting for a reply, but without knowing what he said, Uther cannot offer him one. Days have passed when he would have just waved his son away or shouted or even sneered, but they are not now. They shall never be again.

Uther will not let them.

Since when has his son been so tall? Stood before him, Uther feels like a shrivelled dwarf desperately seeking to bathe in someone else's glory. As Arthur grows more radiant, Uther seems to dwindle. It is the way it must be, and yet Uther resents it. If time allowed, he could make amends, set the record straight, apologise…

He knows he is lying to himself. Self-preservation comes easily to him and he struggles to toss it aside. He deserves to feel guilt after what he has done. He could reach out a hand now, clap Arthur on the shoulder and tell him how proud he is of him, of how he loves him more than life itself. He could apologise for everything that he has done, beg Arthur's forgiveness and hope that it is granted – it will be, he knows, because Arthur is merciful.

He could, but he won't.

It's pride that stops him. He remembers trying to bury it with Morgana, but he could not. Like with Arthur, he knows that it's his fault she ran eventually. For all his preaching about magic being evil, he never believed that he could be just as bad. The magic had driven her from her mind, but it was him that had forced her from the castle. If magic belonged to the devil, well then so did he. What other reason did he have for his actions?

Nothing can excuse him for what he has crushed.

It is those dreams he weeps for, the ones he has single-handedly taken and destroyed. His son, once so young and innocent, had to grow up quickly – too quickly – and Uther knows it is all his doing. He is the thief, the destroyer.

Arthur thinks he has forgotten, but Uther will always remember.


	26. Chapter 26: Fanfiction? Part Three

**AN: Haha, thought it was time for another of these babies so here we go ;) Part three of the fanfiction, more of a filler chapter than one of great humour I'm afraid, and the characterisation might be a little off (though I sincerely hope not), but it sets the scene nicely for part four which I have lots of lovely ideas for. Mwahahahaa. I'm thinking Merlin and Arthur haven't suffered enough yet ;). Nasty right? :L**

**Anyway, reviews are beautiful, as are the people who write them :L **

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Merlin didn't get very far, however, before he was forced to turn back on his heel and dive behind the welcoming sanctuary of a wayward curtain.

Morgana, her long, dark hair billowing behind with every strep, tripped down the corridor singing softly to herself. Peeking out from the curtain, Merlin could see that though she seemed the very picture of innocence, her eyes shone with mischief, and, without meaning to, let out a small groan.

The footsteps suddenly stopped and behind the fabric, Merlin shivered.

_Please, God,_ _please if you're real, don't let her find me. I promise to stop complaining about Arthur and I'll even do Gaius chores and listen to one of the Dragon's stupid lectures if -_

"What on earth are you doing skulking behind that curtain, Merlin?"

Inwardly, Merlin cursed as he emerged sheepishly, the offending object half-hidden behind his back. Morgana's eyes wracked his face and he felt himself flush.

"Ermm, nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Merlin. You've got that shifty look about you, the one that says you're up to no good. Just what've you been doing?"

"What? I'm –"

"Stop protesting! That I'm-so-innocent expression might be able to fool Arthur, but not me. You're as red as beetroot! Now what've you got there?"

"Nothing."

"I told you not to lie to me. That silver thing you're trying to hide behind your back. There."

He decided it was best to feign innocence and tried to inch the object back behind the curtain out of sight. It was, he had found surprisingly heavy and the sheer weight of it was making his arms buckle. Perhaps he should have been more discreet, because before he was able to place it on the window ledge, it fell from his arms and with a resounding crack, hit the stone tiles of the corridor and bounced.

He was right then; this would take more than sheer force alone to destroy. What dark magic had been used to enchant the object to be invincible? What wicked spells had been placed upon to ensure its survival? He wondered if it was cursed before deciding it was not. He had touched it seemingly without trouble, and by the warmth of it, Arthur must have been using it before. Unless, of course, the object was enchanted to produce heat, though Merlin considered that to be quite a silly waste of magic; there was hardly any point in making the spell.

Unless it was simply a side effect of the deeper enchantments that allowed such falsities to appear before his eyes.

"Ha!"

Before he could even bend down to reclaim it, Morgana swept the object up into her arms and stared at him defiantly, as if daring him to wrestle it from her. Briefly, he considered doing that exact thing before deciding that he couldn't; it would only make her more curious, and besides, if he was seen, he could create all manner of problems for himself. Though Arthur denied it, Merlin was sure he still harboured some affection for the King's ward, and no amount of red-faced protesting from the prince could change that.

Unless Arthur honestly wasn't _interested_ in his step-sister at all…

"Ermm, you shouldn't touch that. It belongs to Arthur."

"It's Arthur's, eh?" Pale green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Yes. Well, no!" _At least I hope it's not his. _

"It's either one or the other, Merlin." She was teasing him. Why wouldn't she just give it back? Maybe he could go chuck it in the river or something. Yes, in the river, and then no one had to find it. Or even better, in the lake. In the lake beside _Excalibur, _and the two could rot together.

"I found it in his room. I think it might be enchanted."

"Enchanted? You should take it to Uther and –"

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

"No?" Morgana blinked twice, eyes wide, though the corners of her mouth soon upturned into a smile.

"I've got it covered."

"Have you now?" She winked at him, and Merlin realised that she didn't entirely believe him. She hugged the strange silver box closer to her chest and said, "I think you're lying, Merlin…"

"I'm not."

"You said that awfully quickly…"

"I didn't. I mean, I did, but I didn't mean to. I'm not lying."

"You're hiding something."

"Nuh-uh. Not me. I'm an open book." He winked before realising how inappropriate it was and blushing a deep crimson. Morgana, pretending not to have noticed the gesture, continued to antagonise him; it was quite fun, this game, though she really was quite curious about the mysterious silver object.

"Well then you won't mind if I have a little peek?"

"Please, Morgana, I – AH!"

Merlin's face turned from white to green and back again as he ducked back behind the curtain.

"Merlin? What on earth are you –"

"Sshh, I'm not here. He can't know I'm here."

"Who?"

"Arthur!"

"Ah."

"You've got to distract him!"

"Why?"

"Please! And give me that!" Without waiting for an answer, he snatched the silver box and cradled it like a baby. She was about to protest when she heard;

"Morgana?" The voice was typical Arthur brashness, although the Lady Morgana thought she detected a note of worry hidden within the tone. She ducked out briskly, made a show of straightening her skirts and gave him a false, beaming smile. "What, can I ask, were you doing behind the curtain?"

"Looking… out of the window!"

"The window?" One eyebrow was raised in disbelief.

"Yep, out the window. At the view. It's very… nice."

Arthur laughed, unsure whether she was being serious or not. "Morgana. You do realise that looks out over the privy pit?"

"Does it? I didn't notice."

"But you were looking out the window?"

"_At_ the window! I was looking _at _the window. Very complex frames, you know."

"Ermm right. Have you seen Merlin?"

"Have I seen Merlin you ask?" Her voice was unnaturally high and through the fabric of the curtain, Merlin gave her a little kick hoping that Arthur wouldn't notice. He didn't appear to because nothing was said, though Merlin still felt like he was unable to breathe. "Ummm, no I haven't. Not at all. Have you asked Gaius?"

"Yes. He said Merlin was doing his duties for me, but I can't find him anywhere."

"Maybe he's hiding," Morgana said, ignoring the slight hiss of breath that came from behind the curtains. Arthur cocked his head as if confused, but then sighed.

"Well if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him."

"Will do. What's it about, can I ask?"

"Nothing to worry yourself about. Just some… business… that I don't want him to get the wrong idea about."

"Oh. If I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

He gave a curt nod before striding off down the corridor looking grim. It was only when he'd rounded the corridor that Morgana hissed,

"You can come out now."

"Phew. I thought he was going to find me."

"What is this about, Merlin?"

"Nothing…"

"It's got something to do with that box, hasn't it? The one you're holding?"

"No…"

"Merlin…"

"Okay, it does, but I can't tell you."

"Why not? I could always go and tell Arthur that you're here…"

"Fine! Fine, I'll tell you, but you got to promise not to laugh."

She smirked.

"Depends what it is?"

"This is serious, Morgana. Someone's been besmirching my name. And Arthurs. Probably yours as well. This is a dilemma that affects the whole of Camelot."

"Right," replied Morgana. "Tell me what to do."


	27. Chapter 27: The Lotus Flower

**AN: Thought it was about time I did a slightly longer fic again so here it is (: My first 'Confession' type fic so I hope it's alright :/ **

**Reviews, as usual, are just pretty damn AMAZING.**

**And sort of randomly as it's got nothing to do with Merlin; RIP Edward Woodward - you were pretty damn amazing (especially in Hot Fuzz - "Thanks, Joyce.") :D**

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Day passes slowly in Camelot and Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne, awaits his father's return from the Western Isles. He drums bitten fingers idly against the dark wood of Uther's throne counting the seconds until he will be relieved as Camelot's protector; though he knows the title of King will belong to him one day, now is not the time, and Arthur can't wait to be free.

It is too much responsibility for him, this King lark.

Every day, he's had people coming to him and complaining. There's too many bustlers, the market's too full, the streets are dirty, the weather's too hot… Camelot's citizens seem to think he has the power to make everything automatically better. As if this heat isn't driving him mad as well.

It is unbearable.

He is contemplating leaving his duties all together when the doors are thrown wide with a clatter, followed by the sound of a hundred pounding feet as they tramp into the room. His uninvited audience is composed of people from all works of life; knights, courtiers, even peasants. He opens his mouth about to ask what's going on when he sees her - Morgana. Bloodied, head bowed, kneeling.

Chained.

He rushes towards her, pushes through the crowd until he's by her side. He notices she's crying silently, her shoulder shaking. When he takes her hand in his, she can't seem to grip it.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands of her captives – two knights, reasonably young, their faces defiant. "Let her go! Are you hurt?" She shakes her head, but Arthur sees that she can't meet his eyes.

"She's broken the law."

Arthur stops in his tracks, drops Morgana's hand and rises to seize the boy by his jacket. Blue eyes glare daggers into hazel ones and he feels his grip tighten.

"And what is her crime?"

"Magic."

The word is like a slap to the face. He opens his mouth to deny it, but finds the words are stuck in his throat. He shakes his head, once, twice. Inside, he feels like he's going to throw up, because this should not be happening.

This _cannot _be happening!

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm so sorry."

"No." He bends down again, takes Morgana's manacled wrists into his hands and shakes them. "Tell me it's a lie. Please, Morgana." Silence. "Tell me they're lying!" He's shouting but he can't stop himself. This hurts like nothing he has ever felt, and in the split second when she meets his eyes, he realises that he's terrified.

"I can't."

He pushes himself away from her, turns his back, and in front of all his courtiers, retches. Nothing comes up – he has not eaten properly for days now – but his face floods crimson with shame. Then, it turns white.

"What did you do? Tell me what you did!"

"I – I –" The words won't come out and she's gulping air. He's looking at her and she feels her heart break, because this is her fault and she knows what she's done. Even the best intentions have gone awry and now, this is it. Her doom.

She's dreamt of it before, only it was never like this. There was something noble in her death, something powerful that serves a purpose. Here, right now, right this second, there is nothing but shame and regret.

She should have told him.

"She was poisoning the water, sire. These people saw her do it."

"I wasn't," Morgana sobs, though Arthur's barely listening. "I was trying to help. The water was already infected –"

The hazel eyed knight, with a look of repulsion at his prisoner, strikes her in the face.

"Don't lay another finger on her!" Arthur hears himself shout, but he's aware of the audience who are watching him with Uther's eyes. Even now, he finds himself honing in on their judgements of him; weak, cowardly, biased… He feels control slipping through his finger tips, and all the while the bile in his throat is chocking him. He's never seen Morgana look so pale or so weak. Her bones look so frail that they might snap, and the eyes within the dirty face are haunted.

He doesn't know what to believe, and worse, he knows she hates him for it.

"Please, Arthur! I swear I wasn't."

"There are witnesses," the hazel eyed knight repeats, and Arthur feels his loathing for him grow with every breath. Sir Thomas, Arthur believes he is called. At the minute, the prince wants nothing more than to strike the boy's head from his shoulders. "Here."

"I saw her, sire." The mousy haired girl is thrust forward, and timidly, she starts to recount her story. A hundred pairs of eyes watch her and she realises that, for the first time, they are listening to her – the elite, those whom society deems better than her, more deserving. Elation rises within her and she drives forward with a new purpose. "I saw her. The witch. She was muttering an enchantment over by the water and then she dropped something in."

"And I, sire." Another steps forward, a ginger haired man Morgana has seen about the castle before. A kitchen servant; she does not know his name. She has not had need to. How strange then, that this perfect stranger is signing her death warrant.

"I was trying to help…" The voice is defeated, broken even, because Morgana knows the sentence has already been passed. The only thing to hope for now is a swift execution.

"I – I need to think. My father –"

"- will not be back for days. You expect us to wait that long when there's a witch among us?" Thomas glowers up at him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Arthur feels the crowd's anger working against him, and he knows he has no choice but to comply with their wishes. The mob possesses more power than he could ever hope to have.

"She's my sister!"

"And that makes her offense excusable, does it? Why is it one rule for us and one rule for Why is it one rule for us and one rule for _your _lot?"

Arthur doesn't know what to say. He wishes with all his heart that they could understand; this is _Morgana, _his sister, and for a long time, his only friend and confidant. How can he sentence her to death when he loves her as much as life itself?

How can they expect him too?

He wishes Uther was here. Though the King has his faults, he'd know what to do. There's no way he would stand for this. He'd do something to fix it, make the wrong right, force them to see that it's all been one big understanding! He could save her.

Arthur can't.

It's not that he doesn't want to – he wants that more than anything – but he does not know how. To defy the laws would mean losing the support of his people, and Arthur is no tyrant. Anyone could stride in here right now, right this second and he would be powerless. They could take his throne – take even his crown – and he would not be able to stop them. Even his knights are rebelling against him. He has gone from being the predator to the prey, and he knows that they're going to gobble him whole.

"Think about what you're doing! She's the King's Ward for God's sake! I cannot allow you to –"

"Enough talk!" The people have grown bold in the King's absence, Arthur realises. He has allowed them to roam unchecked and that liberty has gone to their head. Led by the young knight, they think themselves to be an unstoppable force - and in a way, they are. "If you will not punish her, the people will!"

Arthur notices some of the knights have the intelligence to look ashamed as they shift awkwardly about on the spot.

"No one said anything about killing," one of them begins, before the young knight Thomas silences him.

"She's a witch, and witches deserve to die. Bitch has had the protection of the King for long enough!"

"Why do you hate magic so much?" The voice comes from the quivering woman on the floor. "Uther hates it, but not like you do. Uther hates it because of what it has cost him. You hate it because you don't have it."

"Shut up, whore, shut up!"

"You don't have it," Morgana repeats in a stronger tone, "and you cannot bear it!"

He goes to strike her again, but suddenly, he's thrown backwards by some invisible force. Arthur looks to Morgana in shock, but he sees the same thing reflected on her face before the expression shifts to fear.

"It was me." The voice comes unlooked for from the other end of the hall, but Arthur recognises it as if it were his own. "I did it. I poisoned the well."

Merlin, his face defiant, the normally twinkling eyes burning pools of fury as he forces his way through the crowd. They part for him silently, their faces no longer smug but fearful. He stops at Morgana's side, stands defiantly with his arms folded protectively across his chest. He looks every inch the saviour, except Arthur realises that he's not going to be able to save anyone.

Without meaning to, the prince laughs, a cold sound of disbelief that sends shivers down the audience's spine. Some of them are slinking out now, their pale, peaked faces eager to be away from the scene of such horror. They know it is going wrong even if their prince doesn't.

"You. Magic? This just gets better and better doesn't –"

"It was me!" The shout echoes around the hall and Arthur recoils as he realises that there's nothing he recognises in Merlin; the usual cheerfulness has turned to rage, the cheeky grin stretched thin in disgust. The servant has gone, replaced by something much more powerful that Arthur cannot control. "You have always doubted me! Silly Merlin, you think. He's got no idea, has he? He's _stupid_. He's not worth of listening to because he's a servant! Well you're wrong! I am worth something, a damn sight more than these… these _murderers _stood here!" He turned round to address the crowd who shrank away from his scorching gaze. "You should be ashamed! You call yourself humans, but you're no better than the monsters you seek to protect yourself from." He stopped suddenly, his expression becoming crazed. "Only there are no monsters you should be frightened of," he continued in barely more than a whisper, though everyone heard, "because you're the biggest monsters there could ever be!"

"Merlin, don't lie on my behalf –" Morgana's eyes are pleading with him to stop, and Merlin knows that she feels the weight of what he is doing. What he _has _to do, because now he knows the truth; that he loves her, he can't imagine life without her, and he'd rather die than ever allow her to feel pain.

"It wasn't Morgana who poisoned the well. It was me."

"Merlin, no one poisoned –"

"Please." It's barely more than a whisper but she hears.

"I cannot let you do this, Merlin." Then louder, "It was me. I can do magic. I can prove –"

She is cut off with the sound of Merlin muttering a spell. The manacles around her wrists click open and fall with a clunk to the ground. Some of the crowd scream. Others take to their heels and run shrieking from the room. Even some of the knights are too cowardly to stay.

"Leave," Arthur commands the remaining spectators. Muttering, they do as their told, even Sir Thomas, though he mutters something about justice prevailing. Arthur doesn't care. Everything he has known has just come crashing down, and now his own life is smothering him.

"I _am_ a sorcerer, Arthur." Silence. Arthur has been holding his breath now for over a minute. He knows they expect him to say something but the words won't manifest themselves, and he senses Merlin's agitation grow with every breath. "Everything you hate."

"You've lied to me. Both of you."

"Just me," Merlin says, but it's too quick to be truthful. Arthur can see now as she slips her hand into that of his manservant that they both radiate with power. They are both ethereal, their pale faces glowing.

He has been blind.

"We both have." As if to prove the point, Morgana conjures a flower in her hand. It's a perfect lotus flower, pale pink, smooth as silk, and in the gentle breeze wafting in from the open doors, it dances. With one contraction of the hand, she crushes it.

Arthur feels his heart break with it.

"I don't understand." The prince feels like a child again. He'd thought he'd escaped the feeling of powerlessness from his youth, but he realises now that it's only been suppressed. How can he escape something he is composed of?

"It's not hard." Merlin is scornful and Arthur is helpless. They could kill him, he realises, and a flurry of fear erupts in his stomach. With it comes clarity. He draws his sword and holds it before him with shaking hands.

Two pairs of eyes widen in shock.

"Arthur, we're your friends! How could you think that we'd want to hurt you?"

"I don't know what to think, Morgana. I've been brought up to believe that magic is evil and now you two are telling me you have it! I don't know what to _do_! Can you get rid of it? Merlin? Can you?"

"It's not something you 'have'," Merlin tells him reaching out a hand. Arthur can't help but take a step back, and he hates himself for the crushed look that fleetingly appears on Merlin's face. "You are it. I _am _magic, Arthur. I can't change who I am. I've tried to, but it doesn't work."

"But you helped me. With Morgause. You helped me see that magic is evil –"

"No, Arthur! It's not evil! Certain people abuse it yes, but us, we're good. We've helped you! I've _served _you! If I was going to hurt you, wouldn't I have done it before now?"

"Magic is evil…" the prince repeats, but the words sound flat and contrived. "It killed my mother!"

"No, Arthur." Morgana tries to be a gentle as possible, but she's crying again and the words come out hoarse. "It was an accident –"

"An accident! An accident! Is that all that what it was? Silly Arthur for being so ridiculous. His friends have betrayed him, his mother's died, but it doesn't matter because all these things are accidents!"

"I lost my father too!"

Arthur is not used to Morgana shouting at him. Normally, it is towards Uther that she directs her rage, but now he feels the full force of it. She's trying to wrench free of Merlin's grasp but he won't let her. It's like, Arthur thinks, he's afraid what might happen if he lets go. "Remember? And my mother! And where was the magic then, Arthur? Where was it?! If he'd had magic, he could have saved himself."

"Magic's only used for bad. You poisoned the well…"

"No one poisoned the well, Arthur! The well was poisoned already. I tried to purify it! And Merlin has used magic to save your life so many times, Arthur, and you've never known! It's saved all our lives, even Uther's! Tell me how that can be a bad thing? Not all apples are rotten."

"Saved my life?"

Arthur turns to look at Merlin with questioning eyes, though the warlock – for that's what he is – is distorted by hot tears that threaten to fall.

"The questing beast. Valiant. Sophia. Morgause. Myror –"

"All them? Every single one?" The prince cannot think. "But why?"

"We're friends," Merlin answers simply. "Though you never listen. Or say sorry even when I'm right. And you make me clean ridiculous amounts of armour." He grins, and for the briefest second, Arthur sees the old Merlin. The real Merlin. The one thing he has abused and taken advantage of because he had thought it would always be constant.

He finds he can forgive Morgana for her betrayal– but Merlin? The prince knows that what he has lost there can never be replaced, and in a way, he realises he wouldn't want it to be; Merlin is a part of him now that Arthur can't bear to omit.

"Will he ever come back?"

"Who?"

"Merlin."

A pause.

"He never left, Arthur." Silence. When Merlin continues, it's almost as if he's trying to convince himself as well. "I'm still Merlin. Magic doesn't change that. It's just there's another side to me that I've had to keep hidden until now. And it's not a bad side. It's not."

"Oh." Arthur turns away before they can see the solitary tear that trickles down his cheek. In one, swift motion it is gone, but where it has touched his skin, it's burning. "Did you ever – ever want to tell me? About the magic?"

"Every day."

That makes Arthur smile for some reason, though there's a guilt inside that twists and strangles, because he knows Merlin could not tell him. Arthur has been blind and he has been prejudiced, and it is only now that he is beginning to see the light. It's too late now.

Dawn has already broken.

"You must go," the prince says suddenly. "Both of you. Speak to no one. Just… get out."

"But your father –"

"I'll deal with my father, Merlin."

"No, it's too risky!" Morgana's eyes implore him to rethink, and for a second, he is swayed until he sees the hope there and knows he cannot refuse them escape.

"Do you trust me?" Merlin asks softly. Mute, Arthur nods. "There's a spell I can use. It will send you to sleep for a while. Not very long, but long enough for us to be gone."

"Do it now, and then run."

The spell is cast without words. At first, Arthur simply feels drowsy, but as Merlin lowers him gently to the ground, a sense of peace washes over him. It is okay, this secret. He loves them both with a passion, and he knows now that he trusted them with his life, they will not hurt him. Magic might be evil – though he finds his opinion rapidly shifting – but even sorcerers have a sense of honour.

"We'll stay until you're sleeping," Morgana tells him before kissing him softly on the mouth. He remembers all the times he has dreamt of kissing those lips as if they belong to another man; it doesn't matter now – she is Merlin's and Merlin is hers, and that's the way it should always be. You cannot fight destiny, and Arthur can see that they're both inescapably entwined.

"Promise me you'll come back," Arthur says with his last conscious breaths. "When this is over. Promise me you'll come back when it's safe."

"We will," the sorcerers tell him.

* * *

It is late when Arthur awakens. He finds himself in his chambers, and he is lying on his back with his face towards the open window. Someone has moved the bed so that it stares out at the paths that lead out of Camelot; and the world beyond; and for some reason, his fist has been positioned over his heart. He sits up to better feel the caress of the autumn wind on his skin, and as he does, his fingers spring open to reveal palest pink softness.

Resting in the palm of his hand are two perfectly formed lotus flowers.


	28. Chapter 28: Letter from the Dying

**AN: Erm so yes, it's been absolute age since my last update and I'm super sorry! I swear teachers plot to sump as much work on you as physically possible in the space of a fortnight! Actually terrible. I should be doing my Death of a Salesman essay now but you know; Merlin or death of a salesman? Hmmm, difficult decision I _don't _think. :)**

**Anyway, only a very short chapter that probably doesn't make much sense (I really, really don't work well in the mornings). **

**Happy reading (although again, it's more angst. However, I do have a luverlyyy little crack fic in the works *snigger snigger* which I hope to be posting in the next few days :) **

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Merlin,

It's been a while since I last wrote. I've wanted to for a while but every time I pick up the quill, I…

It hurts.

He always said it was so simple. You're good or evil, right or wrong. Uther was a cruel man, but you thought he was right about that. Two extremes. You of all people should have understood the middle ground, the grey area. Not life, not death. Not day, not night. Not good, not bad.

Just the shades.

I keep looking out of the turret window expecting you to be below. Madness I know. It is madness. That's what you said before... But I wasn't mad, wasn't insane, wasn't anything. I knew the truth. I _knew_, Merlin! I knew things. Terrible things that made me want to claw out my eyes. Made me want to cry.

Made me want to die.

Don't you understand, Merlin? You knew things too. But I knew something you never could:

You can love too much.

You thought I'd look out for you. That somehow I'd be around to pick up the pieces when things happened because that's what you did for me. As if just by doing those things, it signed some sort of binding contract in your eyes. One good deed deserves another, right?

Only you're not good, are you? You're all wrong - all, all wrong – with that evil, that _magic_, running riot inside of you. It had to be controlled, don't you see? I had to do it.

I'm not sorry.

I'm not.

You lied to me, Merlin. You promised me it'd be okay. I did it to myself too. The pain nearly killed me. It was like ripping out my heart, only it wasn't because you'd already done that, hadn't you? Can't break something that's already broken. Can't seem to fix it either.

Can't seem to feel anything.

I didn't want to be by myself. I wanted a family. Friends. When I was a child, I imagined the future and saw happiness. Didn't matter what had passed. It was just pain.

I don't want to die.

I'm so scared of what's behind, and yet I can't bear to look forward. What's behind the veil, Merlin? What's over the other side? They said you knew. Maybe it was another of their lies but I don't think so. I wanted to know everything but you always seemed to know more.

Everything was anything for you.

I'm going to rot. You, you have endless life. I suppose that means I'm more human than you. But I don't feel it. Sometimes, I think I'm dead already and then someone will touch my hand and realise I'm not. But it's okay, Merlin. When I'm in the earth, I won't be me anymore. I hate this face anyway so it's not that bad. Not that painful. I'll be okay.

I will.

Sunset. It's the worst time of the day for me; the dusk plays to me over and over again some sort of montage from the gloom. Always the same sequence. Always the same sad goodbye under the same willow under the same pink sky. Always the same death at the end of it. I won't pretend this isn't the end; it is. I've lived for too long, done too many bad things to be forgiven. I've hurt and been hurt, cried and made cry, laughed and made laugh. I've lived, Merlin. Maybe it was wrong but I have. If eternity is to be spent in blackness then I want one second of white light.

One more second of you.

What have I done?

* * *

**AN: There you have it in all its craptastic glory :) **

**By the way, I haven't been an idiot and forgotten to put a name at the end; it's sort of deliberate so it can be whoever you think it fits :)**


	29. Chapter 29: Sue in Somewhere Land

**AN: This is a very suckish crack fic but I felt the need to post something after being absent for so long (forgive me!). Anyway, it features the very original character of 'Sue' ;) whom I sure has appeared in every fandom somewhere along the line.**

**Enjoy :) Thoughts and reviews would be lovely because I'm not quite sue about whether to continue it or not yet. Thanks! :)**

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Once upon a time in a country just up the M25, there lived a young girl who went by the name of Serendipity-Fortuna-Harmony-Ebony-Rae, but for the purpose of this story, we'll just call her Sue.

Now Sue wasn't your normal sort of girl, oh no. Sue was the most amazing, beautiful, fantastical girl to ever have lived as everyone told her upon sighting her face.

"Sue, you're the most amazing, beautiful, fantastical girl to ever have lived," sighed the school jock who like every other hot-blooded male to set eyes on Sue was hopelessly in love with her.

"Oh, thank you," Sue sighed in a voice as beautiful as her appearance. "But you know it would never work; you're far too good to me. I'm just so ugly and everyone hates me and my life sucks and I get abused and picked on by all the hot, preppy girls at school even though I'm supposed to be far more beautiful and amazing than they are and I don't actually have any talents or anything but all the guys love me, but I can't go out with them because I'm waiting for my one true love!"

And Tyson the jock stared at her wide eyed for a few seconds before backing away out of sight.

"My life sucks," Sue said to herself seconds later as she got into her pink Porsche convertible. "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I might as well go eat worms…" And she continued to sing all the way home. Everyone who heard her, of course, gasped in amazement at her voice as if you haven't guessed by now, Sue was "zomg, totally amazing!" at everything she did.

And just in case it slipped your mind for a moment, she was also extremely beautiful.

Now, when Sue got home, she immediately checked the mirror to see if her platinum blonde hair –natural, of course – was still as pristine as it usually was. However, something strange had happened to the mirror; the glass was missing, instead showing a serene woodland bathed in sunlight.

"Wow," said Sue. "This new special effects mirror is really cool!" And without further thought, she stepped blinking into the mirror.

Somehow, just from one sniff of the air, Sue knew where she was. For those of you who don't have Sue's super powers of deduction, she was in Albion.

Incredibly conveniently, a few seconds later, two men stumbled through the bushes and into her path. They were both rather good looking, thought Sue, and immediately she plastered on her winning smile showing her pearly white teeth and fluttered her unusually long eyelashes in a way that can only be described as demonic.

"Hi," she said. "You must be Arthur and Merlin!" And she grinned as if she had just worked out the square root of pi.

"Erm," said Merlin looking slightly bemused. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sue," replied Sue with an elaborate curtsey. "And I'm a princess." For a second, even she looked baffled by this interesting plot development, or perhaps it was just the fact that her false eyelashes were beginning to peel away from her eyelids.

"A princess?" Merlin replied as if he had never seen royalty before, which quite frankly was ridiculous as stood next to him was the crown prince of Camelot. "From where?"

Sue looked confused before shrugging. "Paris."

"Paris?" Now Merlin was looking bemused. "Where's that?"

"Don't you know anything?" Sue asked scandalised. "It's the capital of England!"

Now Arthur was still saying nothing. He had been stunned into silence by the sight of Sue who was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I'm going to marry her, he thought to himself, and in a most uncharacteristic display added, fuck character development.

He stood there looking gormless for a further ten minutes whilst Sue wittered on about various places he had never heard of – Gucci and Prada and Chanel and even somewhere called River Island – and thought about how her sapphire blue eyes really were the most ethereal things he had ever seen. They were just so big and pretty and blue like the shiny things he liked to collect in his spare time.

At once, it began to rain heavily and Sue cried out, "Oh no, my Dolce and Gabbana jeans!" Still, she couldn't help but feel that she pulled off the wet look rather well – she _was_ Sueafter all, and haven't you realised by now that all Sues have perfect figures with perfect boobs and what Sue herself described as a 'peachy' bum? Only Merlin noticed the layer of orange slime dripping off her face.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Sue, mistaking the question as one of genuine concern, began to prattle on about how her father had decreased her allowance from five thousand pounds a month to only two thousand, and how could she be expected to be happy living on that?

"But I guess there's just so many people worse off than me," she finished eventually. "The world would be so much better if we had world peace…"

"Wow, Sue," Merlin said with adoration. "You're the most dazzling, radiant, beautiful, caring woman I've ever met."

"Aww, that's so sweet! Aren't you a cutie?"

Merlin nodded and grinned somewhat inanely in reply whilst Sue patted him on the head as if he was a dog.

When eventually Arthur was stirred into action, he said, "Let's go back to the castle so I can introduce you to my father so we can organise the wedding straight away because zomg I'm totally in love with you."

And, ignoring the advice she'd been given about never getting lifts with strangers, Sue jumped on the back of one of the horses that had magically appeared through the use of a plot hole. It was white and had glittering sapphire eyes exactly like Sue because the author of this story was too lazy to think of any other kind of eyes.

But anyway, they arrived at Camelot faster than Usain Bolt with a rocket shoved up his bum.

"Help me down, servant!" Sue instructed Merlin, who just smiled somewhat stupidly in response. "And take me to my new father-in-law."

Incredibly, Uther seemed to know of Sue's presence already. "Oh, Sue!" he cried in a distinctly un-Utherish way. "The birds were right! You're more ravishing than a roast dinner!" And, as if the King of Camelot talked to birds everyday, everyone nodded. On a minor return to kingly form he added, "Now, I've arranged a room for you. Morgana will be your maidservant and Arthur will marry you and we'll all live happily ever after!" And then Uther grinned and began doing cartwheels around the room shouting 'weeeeeeeeee' as he went.

This was too much for Sue who scowled and hissed,

"Be silent, you nincompoop, whilst I wow you with my vast knowledge of all things fluffy and pink."

And Uther smiled and got out his cup and saucer and they all sat down and discussed fairy dust over a nice cup of tea.


	30. Chapter 30: The Festive Funeral

**AN: Okay, so I know it's been wayyyy too long but my life has been absolutely hectic over the past few months and if I've written anything, it's been rubbish! :L**

**But OMG, wasn't Merlin good? I started this ages ago and the episode convinced me to continue it! It's angst, I warn you now! And when Arthur was crying, I just melted! And even though I'm not loving Merlin's hair cut, he's just so damn cute! :o **

**Anyway, please enjoy the fic and don't forget to drop me a lovely little review, my darlings... ;)**

**

* * *

**It is a festival.

Every year, it is held on this day, the normally mundane streets of Camelot transforming into one, enormous party where the whole city is invited. Thousands of people line the streets, thousands of unnamable faces he will see and soon forget. They are cheering, cheering for him, for his city, but mostly for his son who turns nineteen today.

Uther does not have much love for these things.

He remembers when he was a boy, when every performer now matter how small had captivated him, enthralled him, _enchanted_ him until he had turned round one day in front of the court and declared he wanted to become an actor and an acrobat, or maybe a fire eater or a traveling bard. There had been laughter at that, the nobles declaring what a funny little son the King had, what a jester! And even though it became soon apparent that his only destiny was to be King like his Sires before him, it was a long time before he could bring himself to abandon that notion completely.

Uther's attention is jolted back to the present with a crashing of drums. The dancing - so much dancing, the painful twirling of couples and ribbons hurting his eyes - is over and the next stage of the entertainment is about to begin.

A play.

His knuckles turn white when the actors walk on stage because he knows this play infinitely better than those about to perform it. Arthur seems to realise too because he shifts slightly in his chair. On the other side of Uther, Morgana is chatting animatedly away to her serving maid blissfully unaware of spectacle about to unfold.

Sometimes, Uther has to remind himself that she has lost too.

He is cast as the villain, of course. The actor Uther - for that's all he is, a thinly veiled one-dimensional representation of a monarch with many sides - is typically overacted, the white makeup giving way to the black anger of that fixed frown. The face is corpse-like and it makes him shudder.

The story begins with the birth of his son. The play is a celebration of Arthur's life but Uther cannot help but regret the bitter beginning. The birth of his son walks hand in hand with the death of his wife, and a tingle of resentment stirs within him.

The actor playing Igraine is wrong. There is the stirring of the beast within the King as he watches the spectacle unfold, a growing anger at the way they have turned her death into a farce. The man playing the Queen does it with melodrama, with a lack of compassion for the feelings of those watching. This is the people's comedy, the tragic lives of those in power who they both love and resent.

The royals' misery brings them a sick sense of satisfaction.

Beside him, Arthur is looking tense, his eyes slightly glassy. To someone who does not know him, he might look as if he were simply bored but Uther knows from the clench of his jaw that he's on edge. Whatever Arthur thinks about the circumstances around Igraine's death, he doesn't want to be reminded of them.

Although the scene passes quickly, Uther's mind dwells on it for most of the Act. Is that how they really perceive him, this peasantile race he has governed nearly all of his life? Do they really think him that cold, that uncaring that he would stand by whilst his wife dies and be completely detached like they are now? This is just make-believe to them, meaningless.

They had loved the Queen but they had not needed her.

He's so preoccupied with his thoughts that he misses Arthur's childhood just like he missed in it real life, too busy persecuting those he had deemed responsible for his wife's death. It was easy to blame magic - not for killing her but for being unable to bring her back.

And despite how they're painting it now, it wasn't like this.

Her death was a thousand daggers plunged into his body. There was pain, so much pain that he thought his heart was going to burst with the pressure of it. There were those thoughts, that fixation with death, with dying, with killing himself in hope that he'd find her there waiting for him. There was the anger, that devilish hatred of her that had held him in its clutches for far too long. And there was the guilt, the guilt that she had died, that guilt of the bargain he had made, the guilt that stemmed from his own wretched stupidity.

And there was _that _guilt too.

He could not love his son in those early days. The thing _he_ would have killed for was the thing that had killed _her _in the end, and as he had looked down upon the sleeping cherubic face, he had hated it.

It was with time he had realised the depth of his love for his son. There were things about him - little things like the way he'd stamp his feet when he didn't get his own way or always eat his vegetables first as if to be free of them as quickly as possible - that Uther recognised as Igraine, bits of her that had survived the grave. With age, there had been more of her traits incarnated in their son like the way he clenched his jaw when angry and more amusingly, his penchant for checking his reflection in any shiny surface.

The play has progressed now and it takes Uther a while to catch up. It is the present day with a present day Arthur, but this Uther still seems trapped in the past as he parades about the show ground, garish blue robes trailing in his wake. The end of this nightmare is not coming quickly enough.

Then they are into foreign territory.

A wedding, a great mass of white dress and cheers from the crowd with a blushing bride as blonde and as noble as her husband, the two white faces painted with matching fixed smiles. Her wig slips at one point and the crowd roars with laughter, but for Uther Pendragon, the humour falls flat. This should be a celebration and yet he cannot help feel it has descended into a mockery.

The scene progresses into what Uther recognises as a funeral. The faux-Uther is dead, lying on the ground as if already entombed and still the couple wear those ridiculous smiles stretched wide with black paint. Next to him, Arthur takes a sharp intake of breath and Morgana's hand is suddenly upon Uther's arm trying to convey the reassurance he knows he can never find.

He smiles, excuses himself, says he needs some air and leaves quietly, politely refusing Arthur's offer of company. He needs to be alone with his thoughts for a while, and whilst he knows he shall not find the solace he so desperately seeks in this life, for a while he is comforted.

Thoughts of Igraine momentarily drive those feelings away but he knows they shall return tomorrow when the festivities are over and its back to mundane life. Inside, however, there is a niggling voice driving him back to the arena, back to the play and the crowds who are watching.

He shall never be free. His conscience will never find peace so long as he lives, but perhaps it's time to leave those feelings behind. To bury them in the chasm where all other uncomfortable memories dwell, not forgotten but pushed to the edge of his subconsciousness coming back only in his dreams.

As he takes his seat again, he thinks he sees her momentarily in the crowd - Igraine, as radiant as even, her blue eyes replicated in her son alive beside him, a gentle smile playing on her cherry lips. It's time, he realises, time to let go, to live out the remainder of his years and be there for his son.

It is a festival but also a funeral.


	31. Chapter 31: The Fairytale Made Flesh

**A/N: It has been forever since I've written anything, let alone fanfiction so you will have to forgive me if this seems a bit clunky. Writing truly is one of those things you have to keep practising I think else it ends up a bit like this mess. Still, it seemed a shame not to publish it on here when I've spent the afternoon writing it so here we go. **

**Anyway, I suppose you could call this angsty although it might have hints of hurt/comfort. On the other hand, it might just generally suck. Pairings are canon although I suppose it could swing a little bit Gwen/Merlin if you squint.**

**Reviews, as always, are appreciated! Feel free to point out any mistakes, particularly in punctuation as I've got pretty terrible with that.**

**Thank you for reading and sorry for taking so long to update.**

**Also, completely unrelated to Merlin but the band I had playing when writing was Of Monsters and Men. Check them out, they're amazing! :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin unfortunately. If I did, it would be on screen all year round! :) **

* * *

The rain pounds on the windowpane, and the breakfast has gone cold.

Guinevere sits soundlessly in her chair by the window, robed in a blue silk gown with neatly coiffured hair arranged in an intricate up-do. She wears a garland of flowers; she cannot bring herself to take the crown. A goblet of water sits beside her but the rest of the food on the table remains untouched: fruits, breads, meats and porridges rendered stone cold by the passing of the hours. The smell, a mingling of roasted meat and sugar, turns her stomach.

The place opposite her remains empty and the silver plates retain their shine for another day. Merlin will be pleased not to have to polish them, she thinks with a small smile before frowning as she realises he will probably polish them anyway.

Somewhere, a clock tower chimes twelve times; Midday. All too briefly, the ringing fills the silence with something other than the sound of rain on glass but soon the sound is gone and she is left with the tap, tap, tap of the rain again. She adjusts her skirts and takes another sip of water before resuming her staring out of the Morning Room window at the city below.

She is the fairytale made flesh yet she wallows in a pauper's misery. Another morning spent alone with her thoughts. She knows she could call one of her Ladies-in-waiting but the thought of their inane chatter causes a rage to stir within her. She could call her servant but Adelaide is of too sunny disposition for the misery that Gwen wishes to wallow in.

She is not sure how much time passes before she is stirred by a sudden knock at the door, only that the bells have chimed again and the rain has grown heavier.

"Come in." Her voice is eager, so hopeful that she sounds desperate. The butterflies that fill her stomach die when she realises that the fingers that grip the edge of the door are too long and pale to be Arthur's.

Merlin bows his head as he enters.

"The King sends his apologies, Your Majesty, and trusts you found breakfast to your satisfaction."

"It was lovely. Thank you." His eyes rake over the untouched dishes as she speaks but he merely asks if she wishes for him to clear the table. She nods her assent and folds her hands in her lap, ignoring the slight prickling behind her eyes.

He skirts around her chair, careful to never fall within touching distance. The only sound is the clattering of silver as he rushes to clear the table. How he has changed since she first set eyes on him; that silly, awkward boy in the stocks with the wide smile and the sparkling eyes. Many winters have passed since then and now he is a man, though his face retains the boyish charm that had once led her into a gentle infatuation before she knew what it was to truly be loved.

There are fewer grins now and his eyes don't twinkle like they used to. She tries to think of when they stopped but she can't quite place it to any particular event. It's been there for years, she realises; that lost, guilty look that clouds those blue eyes.

She's noticed that she is not the only one whose eyes linger on the young servant; Gaius watches also, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and Lancelot too before he left. Even Arthur wonders sometimes at Merlin's growing solemnity, but he is the King and far too busy to dwell on the signs Gwen cannot ignore. Arthur has inherited the kingly talent of seeing too much and realising too little.

Merlin looks up from clearing away the crockery, though his eyes avoid her gaze. She knows he saw her smile because he nods, an overly polite gesture that causes her chest to tighten and eyes to water slightly. Perhaps he is frightened of her now she is Queen, or maybe he's like her and does not know what to say. A barrier has come between them; a barrier of their own making that neither seems able to scale. She is willing but too weak; he seems too afraid.

Eventually, she can bare the silence no more, and swallowing a large gulp of water, quietly clears her throat to speak.

"The weather is grim today, isn't it?" Colour rises to her face as the words leave her mouth and she's thankful for once that he will not look at her.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I don't envy Arthur being out riding in it."

"No, Your Majesty."

"Merlin, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Gwen? We're still friends, even if I am now…"

"Queen," he finishes for her.

"Yes. Can we not just –"

His hand knocks over a silver goblet spilling claret onto the rich blue of her gown. For a second, they both freeze in shock, he because of what he has done, Gwen because it is the first time that he has met her gaze in weeks. Even the feeling of the wine soaking through the layers of silks and undergarments onto her leg does not stir her.

And then suddenly, his face is burning red and he's on his knees trying to mop the stain from her dress, but she is still haunted by the shadow in his eyes.

"Merlin," she says but he seems not hear as the mopping grows more fevered.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry." Over and over."I'm sorry." _I am too_, she thinks. _I'm so sorry_.

She can't say that though; he won't understand why and she can't bring herself to explain. Instead, she repeats his name until he pauses again. A reckless energy overtakes her and she pulls the cloth from his grip and takes his hands in her own. His palms are calloused, fingernails short and brittle. Servant's hands, so like her own. Her humble background is laid before all in the state of her hands.

"Will you sit with me for a while?" His eyes widen slightly and he tries to take his hands from hers, but she clings tight.

"I must get back to Arthur –"

Sudden desperation seizes her. She feels so wretched, she could wail. If he leaves, she is utterly, utterly alone with her madness. She grips tighter still.

"Please, Merlin! Sit with me."

A pause. A nod.

"Thank you."

He takes the chair opposite – Arthur's chair, the cushion plump as the day it was bought.

"Please, eat!" She forces her mouth to twist into a smile. "There's plenty of food as always. For my father and I, this would have been a weeks worth of food." If he detects the scorn in her tone, he says nothing. He does not eat. Further silence follows and she wracks her brain for polite conversation. "How is Gaius?"

"Fine. Busy. Working too hard as usual."

"I should like to visit him when it's convenient?"

"I'm sure it is always convenient for the Queen."

"Merlin, please." She didn't sound forceful like she wanted to. Instead, she just sounds tired.

"Sorry." A small smile, the first she has seen from him. She basks in its glory. "Gaius would love to see you. He misses you." The smile slips and the coldness returns. "We both do."

She smiles, wishing she still had hold of his hand. The warmth had been comforting even if it had been the wrong hand with fingers too long and too pale.

It is not a comfortable silence that they fall into and yet Gwen finds it comforting. Despite the dress and the room, she feels like she is slipping back into the past, into a time when she could talk to whom she liked and do whatever she pleased. It was wonderful being Arthur's wife; less so to be Arthur's Queen.

Merlin made to stand. "I should be getting back to Arthur. He'll wonder where I've – "

"Is everything okay, Merlin?" The words spill out before she can stop them. She's jumped to her feet too. The worn material of his sleeve is clutched tightly in her fist and he looks down at it before answering.

"It's fine."

"And are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Gwen." He pulls his arm slightly and the material slips from her grasp.

"Are you sure? You can talk to me, Merlin. I know it's different now, but it doesn't have to be."

"Yes," he replies to the floor. "It does."

"Why? Tell me, Merlin. I'll listen, I promise. I won't even tell Arthur! Just speak to me! I know something's wrong. Have I done something?"

"No, Gwen, no!" He shakes his head as he speaks. There's so much intensity in his gaze that it's almost painful.

"Then what?"

He runs a hand up over his face and through his hair. He's lost weight, she realises. Angular features have become even sharper, the skin stretched tight, and there are dark rings around his eyes. Has Arthur noticed? Have any of them?

"Do you believe in destiny Gwen?" His tone is weary, resigned. He wants to speak just as much as she does, only words are neither of their friends.

"I don't know. I like to think there's something planned for us. That we're not just floating around. My father always said that there was. God had our journeys planned and we just flesh them out a little."

"But what if it's your destiny to… do something… but you can't do it because it's someone else's destiny to… do something else."

"I don't quite understand."

"What if you spend your whole life following what everyone says is your destiny but in the end, that won't matter because you're doomed to fail?"

"But how do you know that you're going to fail? You can't think like that Merlin. People aren't meant to how things turn out because if they did, they wouldn't try."

"What if trying isn't enough?" He can't disguise the tremor in his voice as he turns away to rub the tears from his eyes. She's never seen him cry before, not like this. Worry pierces her heart but it is the desire to comfort that wins.

"Then you'll know you did your best. It's all we can do, Merlin."

He laughs lightly, not quite normally but enough to restore the air to her lungs. "Since when did you become so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just chose not to see it." When he turns back towards her, she feels his grin matched by her own mouth. "You're sure everything is okay?"

The sad smile that graces his face breaks her heart.

"I should go," he says by way of answer and this time she doesn't try and stop him as he scoops piles of dishes up into his hands. He totters slightly under their weight and she gets up to open the door for him earning herself a grateful smile.

"Come and see me sometimes, Merlin. Arthur's so busy fighting his wars, I barely see him." She tries to keep her voice light but he's not fooled. She sees his understanding in his gaze. "It would be nice to see a friendly face every now and then. I miss you too. Sometimes, I miss being plain, old Gwen."

"You were never plain, old Gwen. Not to me."

And with that he's gone, his footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor, a paramour to Gwen's misery. She wonders what he meant about destiny and then about her never being 'plain, old Gwen' - what it means for them: her and Arthur and Merlin and the rest of the country. For a second or two, she hates him for adding to her misery and confusion. Inside these four walls, she is trapped and the words to release her seem to creep further away with every breaking of the dawn. As a Queen, she has freedom from everything but the shadows and that is not freedom at all.

Camelot is a castle of secrets and slowly she is drowning.


End file.
